


Not the King's Men

by StoneWingedAngel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 56,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoneWingedAngel/pseuds/StoneWingedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds Sherlock three years after he thought he'd buried him, scared and injured; broken to such an extent he can barely recognise those trying to help him. Battling against too many unanswered questions and his own feelings, John sets out to put him back together, but never stops to consider Sherlock's return may be part of a greater punishment in store for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Packaging

**Author's Note:**

> This story has already been completed, but I got a request for it to be uploaded on here too. As a result, I'll be putting up one chapter per day. If you don't want to wait you can read the whole thing on ff.net here: 
> 
> http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9086628/1/Not-the-King-s-Men

At the time John thought it was simply one of those standard slips left by delivering companies. A black and white, flimsy piece of paper with the printed words 'Sorry you were out when your parcel arrived. We've left it' followed by a row of dots, on which was scrawled a messy 'side alcove'. He was rifling through his post when he found it, and it brought a frown to his face; he hadn't ordered anything lately. It must belong to the lady in the apartment opposite him; their post was always getting mixed up. If it carried on he was considering writing to the postal services and telling them to get their act together.

He was too busy rolling his eyes and retrieving his cane from where he'd left it leaning against the wall to notice how strange it was that there was no company logo on the note.

The sound of rain hitting the windows started up as he limped across the hall to knock on Diane's door, and he bit his lip – whatever her package was, it was going to get very soggy if she didn't open up. He waited for two minutes and then knocked again, three sharp raps, but got no answer; she must be out. Great. He could hardly leave it out there to get wet when he'd known about it all along.

He sighed and limped outside, fuming – Sherlock would have laughed at him and called him soft-hearted, getting soaked because he couldn't bring himself to be rude.

A small smile crossed his lips as he opened the door, despite the rain, which threw itself at him in a way he could have been described as gleeful, soaking as much of him as possible and blowing into his face. Thinking of Sherlock hurt, but it was also…nice. To know that the man had existed at one point; had been in his life.

How long had it been now? Three years? Thereabouts. It felt like longer; his new flat had become almost like home. Not quite the same, but he'd grown accustomed to the fact things wouldn't go back to the way before what he referred to in his head simply as 'It'. Those times were gone. He accepted it, even if he didn't like it as much as he might pretend when people asked him how he was doing.

The alcove around the side of the building was a small indentation in the wall that would have been used to put the family bins if the large house hadn't been turned into apartments. As it was they had far too many bins to fit, what with two people living on each floor, and so the rubbish went out front and the alcove remained empty. Unless delivery men spotted it and thought it'd be a good place to put parcels so they didn't have to come back later.

The box came into view as he stumped around the corner of the house, thrusting the note quickly into his pocket. The rain lashed against his jacket and made the bottoms of his too-long trousers sodden. Damn rain. Damn package. Damn the fact he had no-one to help him carry it in.

He blinked water out of his eyes as he tucked his stick under his arm and knelt to examine the box. It was large, about two metres across and a metre tall, big enough to protrude from the overhang of the alcove; dark rain was already beginning to spread along the exposed corners. The whole thing was wrapped around tightly with parcel tape, so he couldn't tell if there was a name on it, but he decided to bring it in anyway – that was what he'd set out to do, and he wasn't going to let a bit of rain stop him.

It was heavier than most packages – John wondered if Diane was buying new furniture – and it was too big and awkward for him to lift, but he found he could push it along the wet ground with his good foot fairly easily until he reached the entrance to the flats. The doorstep was trickier, but after a fair amount of huffing and swearing he levered it over the steps with his cane and slammed the door shut behind him. The sound of the rain faded.

He left a trail of water on the carpet in the hall, but no-one was around to see it so he didn't bother going to clean it up. He'd already brought the box in; that was enough goodwill for one day. In the end he shoved it into the corner of his flat next to the door and went to put the kettle on, humming to the soft murmur of the radio, which he had on almost all the time nowadays despite the fact he didn't listen to a word. He was just used to the sound of someone else talking, and somehow three years hadn't knocked the habit out of him.

Some of the tea slopped out of the mug and made his hand sting as he flopped down too heavily on the sofa, dropping his cane and closing his eyes, breathing deeply. Things weren't as bad as they had been, he reminded himself, taking in the smell of the apartment. Tea, aftershave and washing up liquid; the smell of a normal flat, lacking that hint of sulphur or rotting experiments 221b had seemed to have engrained in the walls. It was only after he'd left it John had realised the scent had been there all along – unpleasant, but not so bad once you got used to it.

He chuckled, took a sip of tea and reached for the stack of paperwork he'd left on the coffee table last night and managed to forget about. Sarah had been good enough to let him come back to work part-time a few weeks ago, and he didn't want to make a bad impression by not getting things done so early in the game. Besides, he needed the money. This flat was further out of the city, cheaper, but the fact he couldn't stand the thought of getting another flatmate wasn't helping his financial situation. He wasn't struggling, per-se, but he could do with the extra cash, not to mention the distraction.

The pen didn't work, so he heaved himself to his feet and limped to the pot by the telephone to get another. He was halfway there when he heard it – a shuffling noise, like an animal scuttling around. He stopped, tightening his grip on his cane, listening carefully, but the sound had vanished as quickly as it had started; he heard nothing but the whispering of the radio.

That was what it must have been then; perhaps some static coming over the programme. He found a pen and settled down to his work, keeping focused on it, losing himself in the steady boredom, write and sign, write and sign. Forty-five minutes passed by smoothly, and the dregs of tea went cold in the bottom of the mug. The clock ticked, the radio wittered quietly to itself, and John concentrated.

And then he heard it again; the scuffling, scuttling sound. He turned his head towards it, and his eyes fell on the box by the door. Mice? But it had sounded too heavy for that, too solid to be the pitter-patter of such tiny paws.

He sighed, threw down his pen, and got to his feet. The box was beginning to dry, curling up around the edges, although it remained strong. There were no obvious holes in it, apart from four in the corner, and those looked too small and precise to be made by hungry rodents. In fact, they looked a little like…

Air holes.

John frowned. The thought passed through his head that Diane was trying to smuggle cats into the building, which was strictly animal free. But no, there would be an explanation. Perhaps the parcel was for neither of them, but for the next house along, or even somewhere miles away. That was probably it.

Even so, it wasn't right to open someone else's package…was it? John bit his lip and stared at the box. What if there was an animal in there? Diane might not be back for hours, and he wouldn't want anything horrible to happen to it whilst he was waiting. If she asked why he'd opened it he could just say that he'd thought it was for him, make up a story about ordering something of his own. A big coincidence.

It was the third scrabbling sound that convinced him, and he went quickly to the kitchen for scissors, then crouched over the box and began to cut the tape. There were layers and layers of the stuff, sticky and almost impossible to slice; the blades kept sliding off. He cursed, went to find a knife instead, even though he knew that using a knife on packaging was never a good idea – as a doctor he'd sewed up a hell of a lot of fingers belonging to people who'd tried it – but he was impatient and frustrated, and his leg was beginning to hurt from the cramped positions he was forcing it into.

The knife slipped a couple of times, but he managed to get his fingers out of the way before it cut them, and finally the tape was cut through. He ripped the last of it away, stood up and put his hand over the lid of the box, ready to lift.

Should he? There was another shuffling sound, a body of some kind scraping over the gritty cardboard. What if there was an animal in there and it was vicious, or panicked, and leapt out and attacked him?

Oh for god's sake, he was a soldier. He'd done far more dangerous things than just open a box.

He pushed his fingers under the lid and lifted.


	2. Light

Nothing sprang out of the box. There was no sound – even the scrabbling seemed to have vanished. John frowned, wondering if he'd made some kind of mistake; no doubt it would be full of pieces of chair, or clothes, or something that would mean he'd opened someone else's parcel for no reason and was going to have a very awkward time coming up with an excuse as to why.

There was silence.

He leaned forwards, pushing the lid further out of the way until it swung back and hit the wall, and squinted into the gloomy depths. For a second he thought it was another parcel, wrapped up in pale paper, until he realised it was far too smooth and it was in fact…skin.

He blinked. Was that…? It was; he could see it now, could make out the curve of a spine, knobs of bone stretching the skin to its limit, too thin. Legs pulled up into the chest, back towards him, head pushed into the arms as the person – Jesus, it was a person in a box – remained perfectly still in their curled-up position, like foetus.

"Hello?" he breathed. Were they alive? What were they doing in a box at this address? Had he got himself mixed up in some kind of illegal immigration or human trafficking scheme? His heart thumped as the pain he'd been feeling in his leg for the last three years subsided, pushed away by a sense of anticipation that spread along his limbs. He remained calm; he could see the person's chest moving, ribs threatening to burst out of the skin. And there were bruises, mottled into patches over the limbs and torso. They were in bad condition, but alive, and he was a doctor. It was his job to help.

"Hello?" he said again, more loudly. "Hello, can you hear me? I'm going to help you, but can you please get up?"

No response. John tentatively reached down a hand and put it to the person's shoulder blade, touching very gently. The person flinched, but said nothing.

"I'm not going to hurt you," John said firmly. He wondered if they even spoke English, and realised he hadn't exactly been gentle when he dragged the package into his house. He'd scared them. "Let's get you out of this thing."

When the person neither agreed nor protested John leaned down and gently lifted them by sliding one hand under each arm and pulling upwards. The box tipped over, but whoever they were they obviously hadn't eaten properly in weeks because they were light enough for him to drag right out of it. John could feel the knobs of the spine digging into his ribs through his shirt, and he had to angle his neck to avoid knocking his chin into the top of their head, which was almost bald apart from a soft growth of fuzz and the odd tuft of darkish hair. Whoever had shaved it had done a poor, clumsy job.

John, not limping, and not noticing the fact, set the person – a man, actually, he realised with a jolt – down on the sofa and grabbed throw off a nearby chair, making a point of not looking until they were covered. The man remained sitting, head down, shoulders hunched so far forward his face was completely obscured, and he made no move to keep the throw in place; if John hadn't tucked it tightly around him it would have fallen off.

John knelt in front of the sofa and slowly reached out and touched the man's shoulder again, able to feel bones even through the throw. "Can you hear me?"

A twitch. He took it to mean yes; at least it was a reaction of some kind.

"Listen, my name is John Watson and-"

The head snapped up immediately, and he realised the person's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as if against a glare of light. "Don't kill John."

John barely heard them speak, because at last he could see their face, and his brain said to him 'ah, actually no, that isn't possible' and threatened to have a nervous breakdown. He swayed on the spot, and if he hadn't been kneeling he was sure he would have fallen because even with his face too thin and his eyes closed and the bruise over his left eyebrow and the shaved head it was the same Sherlock with the same cheekbones and forehead and neck and oh god this couldn't be happening because Sherlock was dead…

John gaped. Sherlock moved so he was staring at his lap again. Long seconds stretched out, the radio continuing to chatter far too cheerfully in the background. John trembled and blinked, trying to desperately to wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock was sitting in front of him, in appalling condition, but alive.

It took him full minutes to be able to stand, and when he did he was still unsteady. He didn't understand; there wasn't a single part of him that understood this.

"Sherlock…" he breathed, looking down at him, and then he suddenly moved forwards and sat on the arm of the sofa, gathering the throw further up around Sherlock's shoulders. He was solid. Everything was solid, he wasn't dreaming, this couldn't be a dream. He wasn't crazy. If Sherlock had been his old self John would have put him down to a vibrant hallucination or dream, but never throughout the course of the past three years had he wished something like this. He wouldn't entertain the notion his mind could be so twisted.

Sherlock flinched when John touched him.

"Sherlock, please, tell me what's happened to you…is it really you?"

No response. John tried to put a hand to Sherlock's face, but all he got in return was a cringe.

"No, no," John murmured soothingly. "No, it's alright, I'm not going to hurt you, it's me, it's John…"

The head came up again; the words were almost mechanical, they lacked emotion, the vigour Sherlock's words had once held. "Don't kill John."

"I'm not in danger," John whispered, throat tightening. He felt like he was going to cry – he'd stood at a grave and begged for Sherlock to be alive, but this…this wasn't…oh god he didn't understand. "See, open your eyes and look."

For a couple of seconds John thought he'd been shut out, but then Sherlock hesitantly turned his head upwards and cracked open an eye. He closed it again almost immediately and remained silent.

"What is it?" John asked. When he got no reply he looked around, searching the room desperately for answers; the box had been dark, very dark, perhaps it was the light… "Is the light bothering you?" A slight indication of the head. "How long have you been in the dark?"

"I don't know."

The answer was monotone, and John doubted if Sherlock knew exactly who he was talking to. But that was alright. He would realise eventually; or at least that was what John told himself as he went to fetch an old shirt and tore the sleeve off it to wrap around Sherlock's eyes and block the light.

"Alright," he murmured, sitting down on the sofa and getting as close as he dared. "Will you please tell me what's happened to you? Where have you been?"

Silence.

"Sherlock, it's John, please tell-"

"Don't kill John."

John ground a hand into his forehead and sighed. He was going round in circles. "Sherlock, for god's sake, tell me!"

A pause. "I don't know."

"Tell me your name."

"Sherlock Holmes."

John let out a breath. Good, that was good – he had that much to work with at least. Sherlock hadn't entirely lost himself.

"Do you know who John is?"

"Don't kill John." This time it came out strained, more emotional; Sherlock's face contorted as he forced the words out from between his cracked lips. "Please don't hurt him."

John froze. Tears, more of frustration and confusion than anything else, rose in his eyes, and his lip trembled; he was beyond the usual shame that came with crying. It was like losing Sherlock twice over.

"Oh god," he choked out. "What's been done to you…?"

Sherlock turned his head again, tipping it on one side. If John could have seen his eyes through the blindfold he imagined he would have been getting a quizzical look. The throw slipped down to Sherlock's waist as he reached out a hand – John noticed it was trembling, and that one of the fingers was bent out of place, broken – and touched John's face. Tears made the tips of his fingers shiny and left John's face feeling sticky and unclean.

"You're crying…"

John said nothing. Sherlock's hand moved up to feel John's ears, his hair, fingers clenching and unclenching. And then, just as suddenly, it was withdrawn and before John could stop him Sherlock had tugged the blindfold away, opening his eyes, blinking and wincing. He managed to look at John for a full second before the burning light forced his lids closed.

"John…"

"Yes," John said frantically, leaning forwards and pulling the blindfold back into place, smoothing his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones as he did so. "It's me, it's John, you're fine; you're going to be fine…" He swallowed again, at a loss for what to say. "I thought you were dead."

No reaction.

"Sherlock, do you understand? I thought you were dead."

"John?" Sherlock's head tipped to one side again, and his hands clenched, as if speaking was difficult.

"Yes?"

"Is this a dream?"

John wavered, biting his lip desperately, and suddenly threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, trembling with fresh tears. Sherlock stiffened and let out a small cry, of pain or anticipation of pain, but John clung to him anyway, selfish in the knowledge his months of grief were about to resurface.

"It's not a dream," he said, bringing up a hand to the back of Sherlock's head and running his fingers through the coarse fuzz that was growing there. "I swear to you this is real."

The stiffness went out of Sherlock immediately, and he all but fell forwards in John's arms with a soft sigh. "Good," he murmured. "That's good…"

Realising he wasn't going to get any answers out of Sherlock right now, John gently lowered him onto the sofa, where he slumped so far into the cushions he looked as if he were going to sink through them.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, pulling the throw more tightly around Sherlock, who still flinched when his fingers brushed against his skin. He got no answer. "Do you want me to call a hospital for you?"

A shake of the head, curt, jerking, and desperate. Definite no. John sighed.

"Do you want me to do what I can for you?"

Another head-shake. The blindfold slipped a second time, but Sherlock's eyes were closed underneath it anyway.

"Alright. I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Silence. Perhaps Sherlock had fallen asleep. At a complete loss, John moved dazedly through to the kitchen, sat down on a chair and stared blankly at a wall, trying to comprehend the fact that Sherlock was still breathing instead of being buried six feet under the earth in a grave John had visited for the past thirty-six months, seemingly without need.

He tipped forwards and buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking; he wasn't quite crying any more, but he could feel himself becoming more and more lost. Emotions swirled inside his stomach and head, making him dizzy, and he had a bizarre urge to start laughing in a hollow, hysteric sort of way.

It took him five minutes to realise he couldn't handle this on his own, and another two to gather the courage to pick up the phone and ring Greg.


	3. Trust

Since It Greg and John had grown close, despite the fact that for the first few months John had been so overrun with grief and anger he hadn't even spoken to him. When Greg had called round he'd shouted, almost punched him, and Greg had taken it. John, for a short period of time, had blamed him, and Greg blamed himself – not to mention being blamed and demoted by his department for letting an 'unstable psychopath' escape. It had looked like the two of them were going to fall apart.

And then, one night, when he couldn't stand it a second longer, John had gone round to Greg's. He'd been at his very lowest, near-delirious; grief had driven him half-mad, and he hadn't slept properly in weeks. It was impossible to sleep a full night when all he heard when he closed his eyes was the jabbering of a dying man leaving a note, too high-pitched, panicking. It had been Sherlock's voice that haunted him most, more even than the blood on the cracked pavement. The voice, and then the silence left behind.

It had been snowing outside, but he hadn't been wearing a coat; it had been all he could do to remember the way, blinded by unshed tears and the darkness.

Greg had opened the door, taken one look at John, and let him straight in. He'd looked more than exhausted, and his flat had been a tip, covered in dirty laundry, old case files and bills. He hadn't bothered to tidy up when John entered; both of them had been past caring about appearances, and even though it could only have been about two in the morning, Greg had opened a bottle of cheap wine. They'd got three-quarters pissed, sitting surrounded by old press clippings. John couldn't bear to look at them, and somehow he couldn't drag his eyes away either.

They'd ended up crying on each other's shoulders for an hour, alone, wringing out every last drop of aguish and silently agreeing never to tell anyone because it wasn't proper for grown men to cry. John had wondered who'd invented that unwritten rule, and if they'd ever watched their best friend jump off a building.

It had been Greg who recovered first; perhaps he'd had less internal agony to shift away through saltwater, or perhaps he was just better at being calm. He'd seen John carefully through the rest of his gut-churning tears and passed him an old handkerchief to dry his face with. Exhausted, John had slumped back on the nearest chair and tipped his head against the rest, watching the snow fall past the window.

"I loved that man, Greg," he'd murmured eventually, uncaring about what he said. Sherlock was dead, and John had finally begun to push the memory of him to somewhere he could look on it without going crazy. "I know what I said about us just being friends, what he said about not being interested, but…after the first few weeks I got to know him, really got to know him, and after that…I loved him. God knows in what way or how, but I did."

Greg hadn't even had the grace to look surprised. He'd just sat there, and when John hadn't gone on he'd crossed one leg over the other and poured another half-glass of wine. John remembered watching the bubbles pop one by one at the top of the liquid.

"You split the yard in half," he'd said eventually. "One lot thought there was no way a nice bloke like you could possibly be anywhere near emotionally attached to Sherlock Holmes."

John had raised his head a little. "And the other half?"

"Thought you were sneaking off between crime scenes to shag each other."

"And which side were you on?"

There had been a long silence before he got his reply. "Neither. I certainly didn't think you were emotionally unattached; any idiot could see that. On the other hand…I'm not sure Sherlock was exactly the shagging type."

John had laughed then, snorting inelegantly into his wine glass. "Doubt he ever had time; if he wasn't on a case he was always fiddling with some damn experiment. And I mean…if we had been together, I'm not sure that would have been the point of it. Shagging." He'd sighed. "We weren't in any kind of relationship – not that I would have objected entirely if…well if things hadn't worked out the way they did. He would have though."

Greg had merely given John a long look. "I don't know. You never saw Sherlock before you met him – if he didn't hold some kind of special area of that massive brain of his for you, then I'd be very surprised. He cared, certainly."

John's hands had shaken when he'd looked down at them. "Not enough to let me talk him out of it."

"Don't." Greg had put a hand on John's shoulder, leaning forwards awkwardly on the sofa. "Don't think like that, it'll drive you mad."

"I still believe in him. I think he was trying to make me hate him; all that crap about magic tricks and god knows what. But he was brilliant, Greg, and I knew it, and he knew I knew it."

Greg's hand had moved away and rubbed his tired eyes, rimmed red as if someone had taken a clumsy felt-tip to them. "I think he was a good man. And no matter what I did at the time…well, I don't think he was a fraud."

John had smiled properly for the first time in weeks.

After that, things had gotten better. Greg had got John to come out of the flat, had brought him round to the pub and practically forced him to talk to people, to interact, to live. He'd even recommended John's current flat to him, after John confessed that the old one created too many memories – he couldn't move without looking at something that set him either crying or shouting in anger. He'd got by day to day, thinking about how the next morning could only be superior to the last, thinking about how tomorrow would always be better, and it had worked. Slowly but surely, he'd clawed his way out of whatever pit he'd been submerged in.

If Greg hadn't been there, John wasn't sure how he would have managed.

And so, lost and trembling, sitting in his kitchen with a not-dead Sherlock almost in pieces on his sofa, John rang him, even though Mycroft was family, even though he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, it was Mycroft who had the resources and there was probably nothing Greg could do. Part of him tried to make the argument it was because Greg was a policeman, and when people panicked they called the police, but the rest of him knew Greg wouldn't be able to help in that respect, and that John was calling him because he was selfish. He needed a friendly face, someone he'd talked to more than twice in the past three years.

Someone who hadn't abandoned him.

"John?" Greg's tone was curious. John could hear the sound of the football game that was on, coming from the television in the background. "What is it?"

"It's…" He glanced through at the lounge and lowered his voice. "It's Sherlock. He's…he's not dead."

The sound from the television vanished abruptly, and there was a pause before Greg spoke. "What do you mean?"

"He's here, on my sofa. He's alive…but god, Greg; he's in a state…"

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes!" It came out almost as a snarl. Sherlock twitched, and John lowered his voice again. "Listen, I know it sounds mad, but I'm looking at him right now…and I need your help. I don't know what to do."

Another pause. When Greg spoke again his tone was guarded – John could tell he was worried about one or both of their sanities – but there was the rustling sound of someone putting on a coat. "I'm coming over. I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"Thank you." John swallowed. "And don't knock when you get here – just text me and I'll let you in."

He rang off before Greg could finish the questions already coming out of his mouth and hurriedly got to his feet to go sit by Sherlock, monitoring him as he slept – was it sleep? Sherlock looked as if he were more comatose, chest barely moving, no natural turning or twitching, apart from when John had raised his voice. He looked more than exhausted – he looked half-dead.

There were cuts, John realised, on the back of Sherlock's head, some of them more recent, some healing. One or two scars. A long line over his neck; faded white tissue that looked as if it had been done with a deliberate technique rather than by accident. The finger that stuck out oddly, fourth one on the left hand. After that he couldn't see below the throw, and he didn't dare violate Sherlock's trust by looking, even if he wanted to – even if he wanted to make it better.

John's phone vibrated in his pocket and he heard a cough from behind the door; he could hardly reach it fast enough, but he opened it quietly, checking it didn't snag on the remains of the box and make a noise.

Greg was soaking wet and looked a mixture of worried and pissed off. "John, what the hell-"

"Shh!" John put a finger over his lips and pointed at the sofa. "Don't wake him; god knows what he'll think."

Greg's mouth was slack and his face almost grey as John pulled him inside and hastily shut the door, and then pushed him through into the kitchen. "That's Sherlock…" he breathed, feeling blindly for a chair and slumping into it. "How can it be Sherlock?"

"I don't know." John found a second chair and sat, keeping his voice low. "He just showed up at my flat in a box…like parcel or something, like someone wanted me to have him."

Greg tugged a hand through his hair and leaned over to get a good look at the huddle under the throw, blinking and blinking as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He looked to John, as if to double check he could see it too, swallowed, and took a deep breath.

"Any idea who could have sent him?" Ever the policeman, John thought – going straight for the suspects and not questioning how or why. Push aside the emotions, do your job.

"None. He didn't have anything on him, no clothes. He didn't even recognise me at first; he's been hurt, badly, and kept in the dark for a fair amount of time – the light's hardly bright in here, but it bothered him anyway." He clenched his hands. "Greg, I don't know what to do."

"Get him to a hospital." The answer was immediate, almost sudden. "Like you said, he's in a state. He needs checking out."

John sighed. "I asked him if he'd let me take him but…he didn't to want to. He wouldn't even let me look him over."

"I don't care," Greg murmured. "He could have infections, internal injuries – you're a doctor John, you know how serious these things can get if they're not dealt with, and you don't have access to the equipment to find out what's wrong for yourself."

John looked at him helplessly. "I can't, I just can't…he wouldn't trust me again, he'd think I was trying to hurt him on purpose or something."

"John, you know it's what's best for him."

"It took him whole minutes to even recognise me!" he hissed, clenching his hands again, twisting the fingers together. "The only thing he'd say was 'don't kill John'." His voice wavered and cracked. "And even afterwards…he thought it was a dream. He didn't…I can't take him around strangers after that…I think it might kill him. Both of us." He put his head back in his hands, breathing shakily. "Greg, this is a nightmare…" He should have been happy, should have been shouting for joy that Sherlock was back, that the miracle he'd begged for had happened, and here he was going to pieces. He felt like he should get his head examined.

A hand touched his knee, reassuring. "Does he have to know he's been to hospital?" Greg's tone was cautious, dropping to an even quieter volume. John looked up.

"What?"

"You could…I don't know, slip him a couple of sleeping pills and get him to a hospital. The state he's in you could be there and back before he wakes up."

For a second John thought it might work – if he were willing to go that far. And then his face fell again. "They wouldn't look at him without waiting for him to wake up again."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Please, don't tell me you don't know about the bending of rules that goes on when Sherlock's around. I was kidnapped by his brother a couple of times as well you know – we can get away with anything."

John blinked. "You really think…"

"I do." Greg craned his neck to look at Sherlock again. "Once we get him sorted we can move onto the how and why."

It was like an electric shock; the confusion that had been threatening to overwhelm him for the past twenty minutes was cut through, because someone else had suggested it, had told him what to do. Ever the army man, John thought as he nodded, pulled his mobile out of his pocket and handed it to Greg. He felt almost ashamed for not being sensible himself.

"Mycroft's number's in the contacts, can you call him and explain?"

"Don't you want to do it?"

John felt his cheeks pale. "I can't handle him. I haven't spoken to him properly in three years; I don't know how to explain…this."

Greg inclined his head and accepted the phone, although John could see his hands were shaking minutely. He wasn't as calm as he seemed.

"Mycroft, seriously? No wonder he introduced himself as Mr Holmes – his family really weren't thinking when they came up with names, were they?"

John let out a weak chuckle as he rummaged in the fridge for a leftover tub of chicken soup he'd made a couple of days ago. His brain had switched onto some sort of 'next step' mode, where all he thought about was the practical thing to do immediately. Nothing ahead of that – thinking that way would break him down within ten minutes.

When he thought the soup was hot enough to be appetising, but not so much to burn cracked lips, he turned off the hob and poured it into the nearest bowl, a new bowl, one with little blue stripes Clara had given him for Christmas. He had two of them because they 'came in sets', but he didn't think he'd ever used more than one at a time since he'd got them.

Greg was still talking quietly into the phone as John went to the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen where he kept over-the-counter painkillers and vitamins and rummaged right to the back, pulling out bottles of mouthwash and cough medicine until…yes, there they were. A small packet of sleeping pills, which his psychiatrist had advised him to try. He'd never touched them, but they were still in date. The recommended dose was two. John put in two and a half, breaking the little plastic ovals – bright yellow, what a stupid, cheery colour for sleeping pills – open and pouring the powder into the soup before stirring the whole thing thoroughly. He hoped it wouldn't taste any different. If Sherlock noticed…he had no idea how he would explain.

Greg was off the phone and watching him intently. "You're doing the right thing John."

John looked at the soup sitting the bowl and hesitated before picking it up. But Greg was right; Sherlock needed a hospital. He sighed. "God, I hope so."


	4. Soup

Sherlock was still curled under the throw, in almost exactly the same position as before. John sat himself down on a chair in front of the sofa, balancing the soup on one knee, and coughed softly. Sherlock shuddered, blindfold shifting as he turned his face into the cushions. For a second John thought he was just going to go back to sleep, but then he suddenly sat bolt upright, although the twist of his lips showed how much pain it caused him, tensing as if he were about to be given orders.

"Sherlock?" John murmured, shuffling forwards. Sherlock twitched and turned his face away. "It's me, it's John. I brought you some soup."

Sherlock gave a soft whine and brought his arms up around his head in an awkward, twisted cage of flesh and bone, protecting himself. He was cringing already, and the lines his forehead was creased into showed how tightly he was pressing his eyes shut underneath the blindfold. This was no good; Sherlock needed to see him, and although John was wary of how much light to expose him to – god knew how long he'd been in the dark – he left the bowl on a side table, went to the lights and turned them down, and drew the curtains. Soon the only light was a minute glow from the ceiling, which cast everything into distorted shadow.

"Sherlock," he said calmly, sitting back down and leaning forwards to tug the blindfold away, causing Sherlock to clench his arms more tightly over his head and mutter something along the lines of 'no, please'. "Open your eyes."

Sherlock, despite his obvious terror, obeyed the command and let his arms drop. He blinked a few times, although the dim light seemed not to bother him as much as the brightness had. "John?"

John smiled and nodded. "I told you it was me." He retrieved the bowl of soup and held it out. "I thought you must be hungry."

Sherlock didn't speak, but his lips trembled and he leaned forwards, eagerly, like an animal after scraps. His bony shoulders were quivering, and John wondered if it was going to be too easy to get him to eat. To trick him. Guilt gnawed uncomfortably in his stomach.

"Are…are you sure you won't go to a hospital?" he asked, picking on a random injury, a bruise over Sherlock's collarbone and indicating it with a flick of a finger. "That looks nasty."

Sherlock shook his head, eyes fixed on the soup, so John resigned himself to trickery and pushed the spoon into Sherlock's hand, keeping the bowl within easy reach, at chest height.

Nothing happened. Sherlock stared at the spoon as if he'd forgotten what one was, then brought his other hand up to feel it, running his fingers over the metal and getting some of the soup clinging to it under his cracked nails, making no move to eat. John waited for a minute, heart twisting painfully in his chest, and then tried to take Sherlock's wrist, show him what to do, but Sherlock hissed at him, drawing back his lips in a half-snarl, eyes wide like a rabbit's. John let go.

The soup was going cold by the time he gave in and took the spoon himself, holding it close to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock ate immediately. John felt like crying again.

It was a long and painful process; Sherlock was clumsy and frantic, and John's hand wasn't always steady, and they ended up with soup on the sofa and each other. Once or twice Sherlock stopped eating and just looked at him, puzzled. At first John thought he'd guessed the soup had been tampered with, until he realised Sherlock continued to eat every time he was prompted, so he couldn't suspect it – Sherlock simply didn't expect to be given more. Each time he hesitated John made encouraging noises, as if he were talking to a disobedient child, and pushed the spoon to his lips.

The bowl had hardly been half full in the first place, and Sherlock only managed two thirds of that before John thought he was looking uncomfortable at having so much in his stomach. His eyes had taken on a glazed look, his blinking slower, lids drooping. John hastily put the spoon and bowl down and leaned close.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock looked at him fuzzily, a confused wrinkle appearing between his eyes. "John…"

John swallowed, mouth suddenly dry; this was the moment he could lose Sherlock's trust completely, watch it just drain away from him. "Yes?"

"M'tired." He blinked a couple more times, then began to slump, shoulders hanging loosely; his neck, already too bony, looked as if it had been elongated. "…must be dreaming…" For a second John thought he was going to drop off without fuss, but something – perhaps the screech of an alarm outside, or a door banging upstairs, jerked him out of it. His eyes widened again, his shoulders tightened. "No."

"No what?" John said softly, trying to keep the frantic edge out of his voice. Act natural. His jaw was clenched so tightly it was beginning to ache. "It's me, it's John, everything's fine, it's all-"

"No!" Sherlock brought up a hand, clenched into a fist, and tried to bat John away. He caught him on the shoulder, but he was so fragile John barely felt it. "I know what you're trying to do!" Sherlock began to squirm, pressing his back against the arm of the chair. "This is you…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "It's not him. It's you."

"It's John." John saw Greg's head poke out from behind the archway, watching them with concern. He tried to ignore him. "Please, it's John…"

Sherlock shook his head, chest heaving. "It's not. Never is." He tried another punch, which missed completely. His arms dropped his sides again, head tipping back. "Never is…"

"Shh," John murmured, gently supporting Sherlock and lowering him down onto the sofa, tugging the throw around him. "Go to sleep; I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Sherlock only snuffled, going limp and sinking helplessly back into the cushions, face slack. John pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on breathing, losing himself in the up and down rhythm of his own lungs until Greg came and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Mr Holm- I mean, Mycroft, said he's sending a car round. Should be here in a couple of minutes, and they'll get him to private hospital – no questions, no delays."

John snorted. "I wonder if he can be arsed to show up himself."

Greg sighed, and John turned to look at him; he was pale and tired-looking. He wondered what it had been like, to watch your friend try and get someone who used to be your friend eat soup like a child. Probably no more pleasant than his own experience. He turned back sharply and put the blindfold around Sherlock's eyes again. The thought vaguely occurred to him that he should find his old pair of sunglasses, although the idea of Sherlock needing something usually considered an accessory in this condition was ridiculous to the point of being both hilarious and depressing.

Greg was looking at him with an expression of extreme weariness. "You look so miserable, John," he murmured. "If you could see your own face…"

"I suppose you think I should be happy," John snapped, getting to his feet and grabbing the bowl. The spoon clattered to the floor, spilling more soup, and he bent to get it with a frustrated growl before marching into the kitchen. If there'd been a door to slam he might have done so.

"You know I don't think that," Greg said, following him and leaning on the archway. "But I think you should be grateful, just a bit."

"For what?" The bowl banged into the sink, chipping the rim, and John began to run water, wrenching the tap around violently. "For Sherlock? Did you see him? He couldn't even feed himself." The washing-up liquid slipped in his hands and he ended up with far too much of it in the water, bubbles springing up immediately. They were too cheerful. "He was in so much damn pain he didn't even know it was me half the time."

Greg remained silent for a couple of seconds, and when he spoke his tone was guarded. "But he's alive. It's a miracle – he's alive."

John's hand trembled, sending the bowl plunging back into the sink, as his throat tightened. "But for how long?" he croaked. His hands scrambled frantically looking for the bowl. "What if…he…complications, he might…"

Greg was there in a second, forcing John round to face him. "Don't. Don't say that. Sherlock's strong, and he's going to get the care he needs. He's going to be fine."

John gave him a watery smile. "You're lying about the last part."

"I'm a police officer – I'm allowed to."

John pulled his soapy hands out of the sink and dried them on the nearest tea towel. "I'll pretend to believe you then, shall I?"

The mobile Greg had left on the counter buzzed with a text and they both leaned over to read it.

Car will be outside in less than two minutes. Number plate GA66 KJW. Driver dark hair, blue eyes, short. Bring him out. Everything will be taken care of without his knowledge. –MH

Mycroft never texted unless he had to – John supposed he wanted to get everything done as quickly as possible. Straight and to the point, practical.

They were all being so practical right now.

"I'll give you a hand," Greg said, going over to the sofa where Sherlock was still sprawled, the illusion of peace, well knocked-out by the pills. John nodded mutely and re-adjusted the throw so it was tied around Sherlock's waist and wouldn't slip – if anything he could at least try and preserve his modesty – and then hooked his arms under Sherlock's for the second time in the past couple of hours. Greg took his legs and together they lifted. Sherlock was too light, and his hips jutted as they manoeuvred him towards the door and out of it. John prayed no-one was in the corridor to see them carrying what could have been a dead body out of his flat, because he really didn't feel like explaining right now.

They were lucky, met no-one. Sherlock's head lolled against John's chest and his arms dangled limply, brushing the floor – John had to take the utmost care to avoid treading on his fingers. He didn't realise that he wasn't missing his cane, and hadn't been since he'd first opened the box.

The car was parked close enough to the building for them to get Sherlock into it quickly; the rain obscured what they were doing, as if it were something criminal.


	5. Call

In the end John wasn't allowed to go with Sherlock to the hospital. The driver, although matching the description, was unaccompanied – where the hell was Mycroft? – told him 'no visitors', and left almost before John had got Sherlock strapped in properly in the back seat. John protested, got angry, almost shouted, and was contemplating pleading before Greg told him to stop. That there would be reasons. That Sherlock would be back soon and they needed a break anyway, to sit and think.

In the end, he had to let them go, staring after the car in the rain, understanding now why Mycroft had given him the number plate – he'd known John would be paranoid. But knowing it was the right car, going to the right place, didn't help; worry wouldn't go away, refused to be appeased even when he tore himself from the pavement and went back inside. The flat seemed four times emptier than it had when he'd woken up that morning, deflated and sad. There was still soup on the carpet, and his cane was lying where he'd dropped it, next to the cardboard box. For a second he contemplated using it again, but in the end he just kicked it under the sofa, out of sight.

Greg offered to stay to help 'clean up', but when John told him he'd rather be alone he left without complaint, understanding to the last. John admired him for it, but he wondered if Greg too was experiencing the feeling that his insides were threatening to project the contents of his stomach onto the nearest surface. John felt almost seasick. Or was it homesick?

He curled up on the sofa and pulled the cushion Sherlock had been resting his head on under his cheek, breathing deeply. It didn't smell of much; perhaps a faint hint of soup. Sherlock hadn't been dirty, John realised – someone had prepared him for his journey by box, for his delivery into John's unsuspecting household.

The thought made him sit upright, and he dug into his pocket, pulling out the scrap of flimsy card with the printed words, the scrawl, the lack of logo he'd missed before. Before he'd thought nothing of it, but now he realised it had been meant for him, deliberately put through his door. He examined the front carefully, but nothing presented itself until he flipped it over.

There was a number on the back, penned in neatly in black, tiny digits in the left bottom corner. A mobile number. John's eyebrows shot up, breath catching in his chest, and he ran for his phone before he'd even registered what he was doing. It was the work of a second to punch in the number, and he didn't hesitate to press the green call button. He didn't leave himself time to speculate.

The phone began to ring, tuneless bells sounding annoyingly near his ear as he waited impatiently for someone, anyone to pick up.

Ring, ring.

He wondered if he was doing the right thing.

Ring, ring.

He wondered if anyone was going to bother answering.

Ring, ring.

On the sixth ring, someone did. John heard a click, and then the sound of breathing, quite natural breathing; not threatening, not creepy or…anything. Just air going in and out of a body, someone, somewhere, who knew what was going on.

"Hello?" he said eventually, daring to break the silence.

"Hello, John." The voice was just short of a drawl, male, with a definite English accent that made John start; subconsciously he'd believed the speaker would be Irish. High-pitched, mocking, the voice he associated with most of his bad dreams. But this voice was low, and steady, and sounded quite sane, on the surface at least. "I was wondering when you'd get round to calling."

"What did you do to him?" John asked, not waiting to be baited. He was already angry and miserable – he didn't need someone making him more so.

A pause. "Every man has a breaking point, Doctor Watson. I merely found his."

John made a sound that was close to a snarl. "You bastard."

"You could hurl abuse at me all day and it wouldn't bother me."

"When I find you I'm going to strangle you with your own intestines," he growled, clenching his fist and beginning to pace, up and down, up and down, trying frantically not to burst into a fit of furious screaming or sobbing. He wouldn't show weakness, not in front of this man.

"You don't even know who I am. How do you intend to find me when you don't understand what's happening?"

John felt like kicking the table, but he restrained himself – the last thing he needed was a broken toe. "I'll find you," he muttered. "One of these days, I will find you."

"You're very quick to defend him, considering he intended to leave you believing he was dead for months anyway."

John stopped pacing. "What?"

"Call Molly Hooper – that sweet little pathologist. She'll have some of your answers. I wonder if you'll threaten to rip her intestines out?"

John fell into the nearest chair with a hitched breath. "Why? Why do this, why now, why wait three years and then…and then…"

"Give him back?" The man chuckled. John clenched his fist even more tightly."Breaking someone takes time, you know; Rome wasn't built in a day. Besides, you'd started to move on. You at least believed he was at peace, that he'd made his choices when he jumped from that rooftop, and you'd even begun to forgive yourself for not managing to stop him. I've been watching you – several weeks back at work, consistently. You had friends again. Because you're a soldier, John, and you had to move on, otherwise it would have killed you. I couldn't allow you to move on. It would have been…detrimental."

"Bastard."

"You already said that. Repetition's a sign of shock, you know. You should get checked out."

John ground his teeth together and took a deep breath through his nose, forcing himself to retain the illusion of calm. "Who are you?"

But it was too late – there was a click, and then silence. With a curse John hurled his phone across the room, where it struck the wall and fell, almost apologetically, into the remains of the cardboard box. The cardboard box which he'd let sit in his flat for nearly an hour before he'd opened it – Sherlock had just been left there for an hour, another sixty minutes of darkness and pain.

It took ten minutes for him to calm himself, by which time the flat was growing dark and the rain had slowed to a trickle he could hear pattering off the gutter. He went over to the box and fished his phone out, snapping the plastic back into place again, and turned it on. To his surprise, it worked, although there was a small crack in the corner of the screen. He accessed his contacts, hovered over Greg, but eventually went to Mycroft. No more kidding himself – Mycroft, much as he might hate the fact, was the person who would be able to do something.

Managed to contact the person who delivered Sherlock. Sounds like he had him a long time. Not a nice man. English accent. Didn't give me any useful information. –JW

Then, on second thoughts, another text.

What's Sherlock's condition and when is he coming back? –JW

The replies came almost immediately; he wondered if Mycroft had already had the second one typed out and ready to send. It would be fitting with the man's meticulous nature, planning and predicting everything. John wondered if he could possibly have predicted the return of his brother.

Make a note of what he said. Will come round and discuss as soon as possible. –MH

Condition unconfirmed as of yet. Will issue you a full report when Sherlock returns. Expected to be at least another four hours to get all test results back. –MH

John put his phone down, more gently this time, and went to do what Mycroft had told him to – he had another four hours to kill, and there was no point in defying him just to be stubborn, as Sherlock would have. This was about Sherlock, and they both wanted to help him. He couldn't find a pen that worked anywhere in the flat – the one he'd been using earlier had been lost amongst the debris – so he used his laptop instead, bringing up a blank document and recording as much as he remembered of his brief phone conversation. He realised the voice had disturbed him because it was too normal; it could have belonged to any man who happened to have an English accent and a grating tone.

Perhaps he'd just imagined the grating so he had something negative to cling to. The voice couldn't be a nice one, because of the things the person had done. That was how it worked.

He skimmed over what he'd got down, checking the details to the best of his ability, and Molly's name leapt out at him immediately – it was so odd to see it there, for her to be mentioned. He hadn't seen her more than once or twice since Sherlock's funeral, and even then he hadn't held a proper conversation. It had seemed like she'd been trying to avoid him.

Perhaps she'd had something to hide.

John glanced at the time, but he hadn't used much of it up; there were hours left until Sherlock returned. He drummed his fingers nervously on his knee for a couple of minutes, indulging in indecision, before getting to his feet, slinging on his jacket and going out into the dim light and drizzle.


	6. Tissues

Molly was so surprised when John strode, without bothering to knock, into her lab at Bart's that she dropped a stack of empty Petri dishes with a crash, sending shards of plastic skittering over the floor.

"J-John!" Two spots of pink appeared, one on each cheek, as she stooped to gather up the broken pieces; he could see her hands shaking. "You startled me! What are you doing here at this time of night?"

"Looking for answers," he replied sharply, not helping her tidy up. "About Sherlock." She almost dropped the pieces a second time and he felt mildly guilty, waiting for her to put everything in the bin before he carried on. "He came back today."

She didn't react to the extent he would have expected someone who'd had no idea Sherlock was alive to react, but her face did light up. "He's…he's back? Oh, that's wonderful, I mean, I suppose he explained everything, did he?" She looked at him hopefully, all bright energy and relief.

"No. He didn't explain anything."

Molly's face fell. "But…then how did you know to come to me?"

"It doesn't matter," he snapped, face twisting into a grimace as he remembered the voice on the phone.

Molly looked perturbed, until she scrutinised him more carefully.

"Is he hurt?"

A hollow laugh escaped John's lips. "You could say that."

She brought a hand up to her mouth and stood looking at him, wide-eyed and suddenly much less bright. "Is it…is it bad?"

"Yes," John replied dully. "It is. He showed up on my doorstep a few hours ago, so confused he didn't recognise me, and so fucking damaged he couldn't even remember how to use a spoon."

Her expression of concern was replaced by one of bewilderment. "What?"

John ignored her and ploughed right on, working himself up into a mixture of rage and despair. "And you knew all along he was alive, and you never told me! You never said a word!"

"No…wait," she said, taking a step back. "No, you don't understand, I didn't know where he was, he made me promise not to tell, he…"

"Explain," he spat, not caring he was beginning to scare her. "Explain right now."

"I…" She took another step back and reached blindly for a lab stool, half-falling, half-sitting on it. "I…three years ago, when he first jumped, he came to me, and he told me he had to d-die, but that he wasn't going to. He needed me to fake the death certificate; I don't know how he managed it, I just let him go when they brought him up to the morgue."

"Why? Why fake his death in the first place?"

She looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "To save your life."

John's heart felt as if someone had clenched a hand around it. His shoulders slumped, and he took in a deep breath, and then suddenly sat down on the floor, because he couldn't bear to stand upright a second longer; without his anger he was too tired to do anything. Molly looked at him uneasily, face pale apart from the pink spots which still clung stubbornly to her cheeks, then suddenly grabbed a box of tissues, slid off her stool and sat down opposite him, cross-legged. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face and offered him the box.

"You can cry if you like. I don't mind."

John snorted. "Already been crying far too much lately," he murmured, taking a tissue and clenching it in his hand. "Alright, tell me. Tell me everything he told you."

She hesitated a couple of seconds, twisting her hands in her lap.

"I don't know…everything. He must have had help from someone else, because I didn't set all of it up. But when you weren't there, he told me he needed my help. That Moriarty was going to make sure he died, but that he was going to outplay him – he was going to fake his suicide and that he needed me to forge all the documentation."

"And it worked?"

She nodded. "Yes. They brought him to me and I cleaned him up – fake blood – and he told me he had to leave, because Moriarty still had a 'circle' and he needed to take it down before it was safe to come back to you. You were under constant observation, from criminals or assassins; he wasn't as clear as he could have been. And I couldn't tell anyone, or I'd put you in danger."

"Weren't you in danger then as well?"

A half-smile flitted over her features. "I don't count. Not to Moriarty's circle, not to Sherlock like you do."

He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed briefly. She took a tissue of her own and dabbed absently at her face, and he realised for the first time the box was pink with kittens on it – completely, utterly out of place in a morgue.

"He visited me a few times for the first year," she went on, balancing the balled-up tissue on her knee. "When he was in the country. Moriarty had associates all over the world, as well as the UK, or so he told me. The last time I saw him he'd been in Scotland. He was excited; he thought he'd managed to track down someone who'd been very close to Moriarty. He didn't tell me where he was going, but he mentioned a plane, so I assumed it was a fair way away." She sniffed. "He asked me about you. He was tired and not in particularly good shape, but he wasn't…damaged. Pretty much his old self."

"So something must have happened between his last visit to you, and today. How long since you saw him?"

"About eighteen months." She fiddled with the hem of her shirt. "I mean, I thought it was odd he hadn't come back to ask about you, but he must have had other people who helped him. I just thought he was busy, or out of the country…that he didn't have time to come back."

"A year and a half," John murmured. "Moriarty must have got to him; soon after he'd seen you last…"

She looked up, puzzled. "Moriarty's dead."

"What?"

The tissue bounced off her knee as she adjusted her position. "He was on the rooftop; it looked like suicide. Bullet to the brain. I got rid of his body – Sherlock told me to, he couldn't do it himself in case he was seen."

"He made you go and scrape brains off the rooftop?"

She shrugged. "I didn't mind; I work with dead people all the time."

"And he's definitely gone?" If Sherlock could die and come back from the dead, John was sure Moriarty could manage it as well. He wasn't sure of anything, not any more.

"It was definitely him," she said. "I took samples and checked. And then I faked some papers and had him cremated. He's just ashes now; I scattered them in the woods one night."

"Jesus," John muttered. "I can't believe you did that."

She chuckled and reached down to retrieve the tissue. "People don't think I'm capable of anything. Sometimes it's a good thing."

John rested one elbow on his knee and balanced his chin on the palm of his hand, trying to pick through the amount of information he'd suddenly obtained; Sherlock was alive, Molly and somebody else had helped, Moriarty was dead, so he hadn't engineered Sherlock's 'breaking'. He shuddered just thinking the word.

"So, if it wasn't Moriarty, who was it?"

"I don't know. Sherlock thought he was getting close to a pretty dangerous man the last time I saw him; it could easily have been him."

"Yes…Sherlock didn't mention his name?"

She shook her head. "Sorry."

He sighed and got to his feet. "Right. Well…thank you. For explaining and for helping Sherlock when you could."

She scrambled up after him, ponytail falling off her shoulder. The tissue went flying again, hitting his shoe, but he didn't bother to kick it away "You're not angry, are you?"

He looked at her for a couple of seconds and shook his head; she'd just done what she'd been asked to do, and that had been an awful lot. If he'd thought Sherlock could have understood him he would have shouted at him for making her take on so much – she could have gone to jail for him if someone had found her faking papers. "What's happened isn't your fault."

"I know that." Her tone was defiant. "It might not stop you being angry with me."

"I'm not," he promised. "I'm not angry. Just tired. I've got a lot to sort out…Sherlock…he's going to need a lot of help."

"If anyone can help him, you can." He could see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes, and then she suddenly leaned forwards and hugged him tightly, for just a second or two. He started, but before he could say anything she'd already pulled back, patted him on the arm, and smiled. For a second he thought he saw something of Mrs Hudson in her.

"Thank you."

She nodded, stooped to pick up the tissues, and smiled back. "Go help him. If you need to ask anything else you can ring me; I'll probably be here."

John left the morgue feeling very slightly better than he'd felt going in.


	7. Responsibility

John went shopping on the way back to his flat, not because he wanted to, but because he knew he had to. He got ingredients for flat, bland foods that would help Sherlock gain weight without upsetting his stomach; fish, chicken, noodles, crackers, cheese. The food was all white, he realised, as he approached the checkout. In the end he bought blackcurrant squash as well, just to add a little colour.

He had thought clothes would have to wait until later – most places were closed at this time – but he happened upon a small shop that was having some kind of late-night sale, and picked up some things that were loose and comfortable. Things that wouldn't rub or cut into bruises.

And there he was again; being practical.

The sky was dully purple when he opened the flat door, and by the time he'd put away the clothes and food it was completely dark. He wasn't sure what he'd been planning to do with his day before Sherlock had turned up, but he was well aware he wouldn't be doing it from now on. The shopping bags had left red marks along his fingers and palms, and he eyed them with mild interest before checking the hateful cardboard box Sherlock had arrived in to see if it held any answers. As far as he could tell, it didn't, but rather than throw it out and realise later he'd got rid of something important, he shoved it under the sofa alongside his cane. His leg throbbed in a confused, weak way, but for the first time in three years he felt able to ignore it. He was considering falling back on his failsafe when he felt like he needed time to think, and making a cup of tea, when there was a knock on the door.

He answered it obediently and found two nurses waiting outside, with Sherlock in a wheelchair between them. He was still unconscious, chin resting on his chest, wearing a blue hospital gown and with a different material around his eyes. Seeing him sent a buzz of both relief and sadness through John; he looked so pale.

"You're Doctor Watson?"

John nodded, wondering why Mycroft hadn't come, and wondering if the sleeping pills had lasted, or whether they'd had to re-drug him. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask. He hoped to god they hadn't let him wake up.

They shuffled inside. One of the nurses, a blonde woman with dimples, carried a large bag, whilst the other, a man with a shock of ginger hair and freckles that seemed to cover his entire face, wheeled Sherlock into the lounge and put him on the sofa.

Before John could go to Sherlock the blonde nurse stopped him by sticking a clipboard in front of his nose. "This is a contract of your responsibility to Mr Holmes. Read it and sign please." Her tone was clipped, almost disapproving. John scanned the page and scribbled his name in the box at the bottom, then handed it back. She checked the signature, nodded to herself and opened the bag at her feet.

"This is a copy of all Mr Holmes's medical tests. It includes all x-rays, scans and blood tests. She pulled out a thick file and placed it on the nearest surface, a small side table with a spindly lamp on it, a relic from 221b John had felt able to have around without being reminded too much of life before It. "If anything else comes up we've been instructed to send it on."

"Fine," John murmured, glancing over at Sherlock. The ginger nurse was hovering by the doorway, tapping his foot.

"I'll give you a brief overview of his condition," she said, flipping over the papers on the clipboard and skimming the last page. "Mr Holmes is suffering from malnutrition and vitamin deficiencies, and a moderate infection caused by an unclean wound on his left leg. He has a broken finger and a strained wrist, both of which we've bound to keep steady. None of his wounds needed stitches, although there are indications of past, more severe wounds. We suspect a twisted ankle which will be difficult for him to walk on for a few days."

"Right." John filed the information away somewhere in his rather baffled mind.

"Bruised ribs," the nurse added, checking her clipboard again. "Received more than seventy-two hours ago, so we can only suggest rest." She leaned down and pulled several bottles out of the bag before John could respond. "These are the necessary antibiotics, vitamins and painkillers. They've all got directions and side effects on the instructions." She plunged her hand back into her bag a second time and deposited a square box of powder blue pills on the table, slightly apart from the others; her finger rested over it for a couple of seconds, and when she spoke her voice was less brusque. "Mild sedative. If he starts to give you trouble or become violent or confused, we recommend one, two for more severe situations. No more than every ten hours."

He paled at the thought of trying force them down Sherlock's throat, but forced himself to nod. He had to appear competent, or they'd take Sherlock away.

"He's going to be out for approximately another hour." The nurse leaned down and picker her bag up, snapping it shut. "We recommend you keep him in dim light for the next few days, let him get plenty of rest, and stick to plain foods, and not too much. Also, one of the doctors had some concerns about his teeth."

John frowned. "His teeth?"

"They've been neglected over an extended period of time; they need checking. A normal dental check-up should do it. It's all in the file. Any questions, sir?"

Dumbly, he shook his head.

"There's a number in the report you can ring if you do." She glanced at her companion by the door, then stepped closer and lowered her voice. "If you ask me sir, this is highly unorthodox, and I don't know how you've managed to get permission to take him out of a hospital. I don't know what's happened to him, and I don't know why I've been instructed to leave him in your hands, but you're a doctor, and I'll trust to that. I hope you can manage him."

She hefted the bag more closely to her side and strode out, leaving John standing in the middle of the lounge with his mouth still half-open. "Right," he muttered to himself as the door swung shut. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed; too much information, horrible information, to take in and process and scramble around in his thoughts. He didn't know where to start, what to do. How was he supposed to cope? How were either of them supposed to cope?

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. What was the next practical step? His eyes were drawn to Sherlock's blue gown – if he woke up and found himself in that he'd know exactly what had happened, no matter how confused he was, so John hastily retrieved the clothes he'd bought and swapped them over. He'd forgotten to get underwear, so he got Sherlock as carefully as he could manage into a new pair of his own boxers. The t-shirt he eased over the stark bruises on Sherlock's chest so delicately that he felt like he was playing with a wire game that buzzed whenever you let the two pieces of metal touch. And there were more than bruises; there were scars, some long, some tiny. John didn't allow himself to look for long, because he got the feeling Sherlock wouldn't want him to.

One of Sherlock's legs was wrapped with gauze and tape John knew he would have to change regularly if he wanted the wound to remain clean. The skin around the dressing was bright and inflamed.

He knew Sherlock would realise his wrist and finger had been strapped, even if he missed the gauze on his leg, and decided the only thing to do would be to hope Sherlock would assume John had done it, and forgive him. Of course, no matter how scared and pained he was, Sherlock was a genius. He might work it out anyway, from any number of things; the way the bandages were tied, or the smell of hospital disinfectant that might cling to his skin. But there was nothing John could do about it, except get rid of the hospital robe by pushing it right to the bottom of the dustbin.

Sherlock remained asleep for the next hour, huddled in the too-big clothes with his head propped on the nearest cushion. John stayed close by, answered Greg's texts in as much detail as he could, and read through the medical file. It made his stomach churn, to see it down in black and white, and guilt was fast in spreading from his belly to the rest of him, until he found breathing difficult. Logically, he knew he'd had no way of helping Sherlock when he'd had no clue he was alive. John had been through his own hell, his grief and his near-breakdown, and he knew now Sherlock had intended to let him think he was dead for an unknown amount of time. And yet, it was impossible to confront Sherlock about it. The concept of having an argument at this time was beyond ridiculous. Which meant John had to push aside anger and stick to guilt instead. Guilt wouldn't hurt anyone but himself. It was safer.

He realised he was gripping the medical file so tightly he was creasing the edges, so he gave up and threw it down with a loud thud.

The heap of skin and bone and oversized clothes on the sofa moved, jerking and curling in on itself with a whine. John raised his head immediately and got to his feet, hastily going to Sherlock and sitting on the arm of the sofa – close enough to reassure, but not close enough to scare him. Sherlock reached up and clawed at the blindfold, ignoring the bandaging around his wrist.

"Stoppit," Sherlock spat, finally hooking his nails into the material and wrenching it away. He sat up stiffly, and shuffled backwards, pressing against the back of the sofa; his eyes were glazed, almost heavy-looking. "I know what you're trying to do, stop it!"

John, thankful he'd left the lights dim and used the lamp to read instead, reached out a hand, not close enough to touch unless Sherlock came to him. Sherlock flinched.

"It's John," he began. "Remember?"

It happened quickly; one second Sherlock was crouched with his heels pressing into the sofa cushions, and the next he sprang forwards and tried to bite John's hand; John's reactions kicked and he leapt back with a shout of surprise, whipping his fingers out of the way in the nick of time as he slid, shocked, off the arm of the sofa.

"Hey!"

The response, the shout, was automatic; the moment was gone too quickly for him to realise exactly how much of a mistake he'd made. As soon as the word, the sound had left John's lips Sherlock was cringing, shuffling back on the sofa, crossing his arms in front of his face and turning to the side, exposing his shoulder and protecting his neck. A scar, livid white, was ripped along his skin, right along the shoulder blade, almost shining as it caught the low light.

"Sherlock," John said evenly, trying not to look too closely in case it made him sound anything but calm. "It's John. I promise you, it's me."

Sherlock remained tense, hands clenched into claws, trembling. John put his hand back out, paying more attention to Sherlock's body language to make sure he could get out of the way if he lashed out again. All he had to do was wait, give Sherlock time; patience was key. He made himself appear relaxed, breathed slowly, and let his hand remain in the air. The little blue pills on the table caught the corner of his eye, but he didn't like the look of them. They made him shudder.

It took what felt like far too many minutes for Sherlock to uncoil himself and look at John full in the face, and even then he didn't quite seem to believe what he was seeing, at least not until he'd reached out, trembling, and touched his fingertips to John's.

"You're still here," he murmured, voice harsh and croaking. "I thought you'd be gone by now…"

John smiled and tentatively came forwards, settling himself onto the sofa. Sherlock hesitated a second, then shifted over and rested his head on John's shoulder, legs curled up on his lap in an awkward half-sitting, half-lying position. He kept the pads of their fingers pressed so tightly together John could feel the pulse throbbing in his thumb.

"I promised I'd be here, didn't I? Do you remember?"

Sherlock nodded into John's jumper, pushing his face into the material. If he realised he was wearing clothes or had bandages on his wrist, he didn't mention it.

"I like this dream."

John sighed, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder gently, round and round in soothing circles. The t-shirt had slipped, the scar still on show, and his fingers jolted over it twice every circle, jarring his system, making it difficult to breathe.

"It's not a dream."

Sherlock twitched, scrambled further upright and put his head in the crook of John's neck, the fuzz of his hair tickling his Adam's apple. John felt his throat tighten; was Sherlock merely finding a more comfortable position, or did he dislike John touching his shoulder? He didn't dare put his hand back, contenting himself with tucking his head down so his nose rested on the top of Sherlock's head, breathing deeply. The smell was of disinfectant; a real smell. Sherlock was real, and solid, and in his arms, and that was…awful and wonderful at the same time.

"I'm glad you're alive," he murmured eventually. He didn't know whether Sherlock was at the stage where he could understand him, but he was damn well going to say it anyway.

Sherlock mumbled something in reply, and then fell silent. He was awake – John could feel his eyelashes fluttering against the skin of his neck every time he blinked – but very quiet. John was happy for him to remain so, just sitting, keeping close, losing track of time, until the morning started to shine through the curtains and he realised he'd been staring into space for the entire night without saying a thing.


	8. Pills

"Do you want something to eat?" John asked eventually, forcing himself into action as the light began to grow stronger. Sherlock raised his head off John's shoulder and looked up at him hopefully, an eager gleam coming into his eyes.

"Yes."

A firm decision. Good. "What do you want?"

Sherlock's face fell, a small frown appearing between his eyes. "I…I don't know."

"That's alright," John said, putting his hands very gently around Sherlock's waist and lifting him sideways so he could get to his feet and make something. "I've got cereal, toast, tea. What do you want?"

It took Sherlock far too long to make a decision; he seemed dazed as he picked through his thoughts. "Can I have…toast?" he asked eventually, looking at John for approval, shoulders hunching.

John gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll go make it. I'll be just in the kitchen, right there." He pointed to the archway. "If you need me, call through."

Whilst the bread was toasting John went through to his bedroom – Sherlock's eyes followed him intently – and found a pair of sunglasses, which he slipped in his pocket for after they'd eaten.

The tray he found and arranged the food, a glass of water and numerous medicines on was one they'd had back at 221b, large with a big picture of a smiling sun on it, and he could tell Sherlock recognised it as soon as he saw it; a flash of something in his eyes, the way his fingers reached out almost automatically, more confidently, to rub over the edge as John set it down on the coffee table.

"Here," John said, picking up a piece of toast and holding it out. Sherlock looked bewildered for a couple of seconds, and then hesitantly clasped it in his fingers, eyes constantly flicking from the piece to John and back again, as if asking for permission. John, being careful not to make any sudden movements, picked up his own toast and bit into it.

Sherlock nibbled off the tiniest piece of crust. Crumbs stuck to his lips, but he didn't wipe them off, waiting for something. John did nothing, but he kept his eyes on Sherlock, willing him just to eat.

Perhaps the hospital had done Sherlock some good – he certainly seemed more coherent – because he seemed to be able to re-associate food, or at least, food John had given him, with no negative consequences; the second bite was bigger, and he hesitated only marginally before taking a third. It was still a slow process, and once again the food was cold by the time they'd finished, but they did finish. That was something.

"Good," John murmured, putting the plates to one side and picking up the glass of water. "Now, I want you to take these."

Sherlock eyed the various bottles John had lined up on the tray warily. "Why?"

"To make you better," John said calmly. He was a doctor – Sherlock would remember that, surely, understand he knew what he was doing.

Lines of suspicion were creeping onto Sherlock's face as he pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. He didn't say anything, but his shoulders took on a defensive hunch again, arms crossing in front of his chest.

John sighed. "Sherlock, please. They're fine, I promise – I'll tell you what they're for if you want."

Sherlock brought his legs up into his chest – John saw him suppress a wince as he did so – and effectively hid his mouth pushing his head into his knees.

"Don't you trust me?" John asked, leaning forwards on his chair and putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on, look at me. I'm not going to hurt you – I am never going to hurt you."

Sherlock tipped his head to one side and looked at John through one eye, sizing him up, calculating something John couldn't understand in the recesses of his mind. John continued to look at him steadily, until Sherlock finally lifted his head and rested his chin on his knees. He still didn't speak.

John sighed and reached for the first bottle, checking the label briefly before unscrewing the cap with a well-rehearsed twist, and tipping an orange tablet onto his palm. "This one's just a vitamin, nothing to worry about." He picked up the water and held the whole lot out.

Sherlock just looked at him balefully.

"Come on," John coaxed. "You need to drink anyway – don't want you getting dehydrated."

Sherlock shuddered and pulled back. "No."

"No what?"

"No."

John let out a frustrated groan. "Why? You've got to help me here, Sherlock, or I can't help you."

"I'm not stupid!" There was a flash of something that could have been anger in Sherlock's eyes, but it faded so quickly John thought he might have imagined it – it was so quickly replaced with a look of terror it was impossible to tell, and before he could blink Sherlock had turned his head away, cringing, awaiting a punishment. For what, for shouting? His tone dropped, became softer, meeker. John hated it. "Pills make you sick."

"What?"

Sherlock remained silent, chest heaving, until John leaned forwards and touched him.

"I don't want to be sick."

"These don't make you sick," John murmured. "I promise. If you want, I'll take one. They're just vitamins, no harm to them."

Sherlock turned his head to face John, cheek still pressing into the loose material of his trousers. Waiting.

John put the pill in his mouth, aware he couldn't do this for all of them because it probably wouldn't do him much good, and sipped a little of the water before swallowing. He cleared his throat and put the glass down. "See? I'm fine."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John, still waiting. "Two minutes," he murmured. Before John could open his mouth to ask what he was talking about he went on, eyes taking on a glazed look John associated with being Not Good. "A hundred and twenty. Your throat. It burns." He shuddered. "It hurts. And it doesn't stop."

John wanted to reach out and put a hand on Sherlock's head, to stroke the soft fuzz growing there in smooth, regular pats, like he had done for Harry when she was so drunk she was crying. But he didn't. He knew all Sherlock would do was flinch.

"That's not going to happen here."

Sherlock ignored him, muttering under his breath. "Sixty, sixty-one, Sixty-two…"

John let him count. When he reached a hundred and twenty Sherlock raised his eyes to John's face expectantly, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks in the half-light.

"I told you," John said, smiling. It was far from a genuine smile, a forced, cracked thing that made his cheeks bunch painfully. His stomach was churning. "I'm not going to hurt you."

After that Sherlock let John put the pills in his mouth, although he refused to actually touch them with his own hands. John went through them methodically, saying exactly what each was for before pushing it through Sherlock's teeth and onto his tongue. The process took even longer than breakfast had, but by the time they reached the last bottle Sherlock seemed to be content to let him do what he had to. John wondered if the painkillers had zoned him out.

Even then, despite the fact John knew it had to be well into late morning, they weren't done. As a doctor, as Sherlock's carer, he needed to keep notes. He found his laptop and got down a couple of the things Sherlock had said to him in case he forgot them – although he deemed something as blissful as forgetting unlikely – and after that he dug the sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on Sherlock, ignoring the way he flinched. The nervousness was something they were both going to have to learn to live with.

As soon as John had put the glasses on Sherlock started to rub at his eyes, pushing them askew. John put them back – the light coming through the curtains was getting brighter, and he didn't want to risk any damage. The dark lenses against the pale skin made him look like some kind of bruised panda, eyes smudges against a canvas.

Sherlock made a sound halfway between a protest and a sigh. "M'tired," he mumbled.

"Have a nap in a minute," John replied, fetching his bathroom scales and putting them in front of the sofa. "But I just need to get you weighed first."

He coaxed Sherlock into a rather shaky standing position, keeping one arm close for him to lean on, and checked the scales. The number of kilos was alarmingly low; if Sherlock had been skinny before, he was practically a shadow now, a slip of silk. A breeze might whisk him away.

By the time John helped him off the scales Sherlock was leaning his head against John's neck again, and although he couldn't see his eyes through the sunglasses he guessed they were probably closed, or on the way to being so. That was fine, he told himself – Sherlock was bound to be tired. He was fighting off an infection and god knew what else. Rest was essential.

"Do you want to go to my room to lie down?" John murmured.

Sherlock looked like he didn't understand the question, so John wrapped one arm around his waist and helped him take baby steps towards the bedroom, hobbling on his twisted ankle. Sherlock followed him entirely obediently, not speaking, not asking where they were going. John didn't know whether that was because Sherlock had learned to trust him, or if he'd just got used to doing what he was told over the past eighteen months.

They were about two metres from the door when the landline rang. John jumped, surprised by the sudden chiming, and by the time he managed to turn around Sherlock had let out a cry and clapped his hands over his ears, slipping out of John's grasp and curling up on the floor, foetal and trembling.

The whole transformation took less than two heartbeats. John, shaking off his initial shock, cursed and ran for the phone, looking around frantically before locating it, perched by the bowl he kept the keys in by the door. The ringing continued, far too loud, as he scrabbled for it, knocked it off, swore, and got down on his hands and knees, finally finding it against the skirting board and pressing the 'end call' button before he could see what number it was, desperate to make it stop. The noise died, but Sherlock was already holding his head so tightly John could see his fingernails digging into his scalp.

"Shh," John murmured, approaching cautiously and gently putting a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, beginning his little speech all over again. "It's me, it's John, you're safe, and no-one's going to hurt you, I promise…"

Sherlock gave a shudder and gulped air, chest rising and falling more rapidly, breathing laboured. His panic was like a smell – John could feel it creeping through the room.

"Come on," he muttered. "It was just the phone, Sherlock, nothing to worry about."

No matter how much he coaxed, John couldn't get Sherlock to get up again, couldn't even get him to speak. Sherlock had shut him out entirely. John knelt next to him and pleaded and begged, but he didn't even get a look in return.

It was with great effort he reminded himself he had to be patient. Patience was everything.

Eventually Sherlock went completely limp, still curled on the carpet. His arms flopped uselessly from his head, hitting the floor with two soft, nearly simultaneous thumps. John knelt by him for a few minutes, waiting for him to come round, to say something and prove he was alright, that everything would be fine, that John wasn't to blame.

But that didn't happen, and he knew even before the first minute was up he was only kidding himself. He had to be practical, he had to stop wishing; he had to stop looking for approval, because he damn well wasn't going to get any from Sherlock, not for a long time, not ever.

John breathed deeply, forced himself to stand, got the blankets from his bed and tucked them around Sherlock, eased a pillow under his head and spent five minutes with the instruction manual for the landline working out how to put it on silent. He also, against his better judgement, turned off the fire alarm.

He was angry at himself for not thinking that loud sounds may cause a problem, angry at whoever had rung him, and, although he wouldn't fully admit it, angry at Sherlock for shutting him out. But he was growing better at controlling it, pushing the feeling away; getting angry wouldn't help Sherlock.

On his laptop, underneath the notes he'd made from the morning, and the phone conversation the night before, he typed with trembling hands:

'Possible: 1) chemicals leading to severe stomach cramps and vomiting. Administered enough times for him to learn the symptoms by heart. 2) Sensory overload – sound especially. Caused extreme panic. Most likely regular occurrence during captivity.'

He was aware he sounded clinical and uncaring. Being so was the only way he was able to actually write something like that down – if he'd put into words what he really felt he'd have ended up breaking the laptop. He could have filled pages with what he thought had happened to Sherlock, but he stuck to what he definitely knew, because it was easier to handle.

He'd barely saved the document before his mobile – which, thank god, only made a soft buzzing noise – registered an incoming call.


	9. Disapproval

John snatched up his mobile without even glancing at who was calling and practically spat into the receiver as he threw himself down on the sofa. "What the hell do you want?"

" _John?_ " Sarah sounded perturbed. John felt himself relax – a small part of him had assumed that the man would be back, the man with the grating voice that made him shudder. Sarah was easier to deal with; she was more human. " _Don't you get snappy with me! I tried to ring you twice. The first time you cut me off, and the second time you just ignored me._   _You're over an hour late for work! I can't cover for you much longer_." She lowered her voice. " _Seriously, get yourself down here right now._ "

John glanced at the huddle of blankets a couple of metres from the bedroom door, and pursed his lips. "I'm not coming in."

There were a couple of seconds of hesitation. When Sarah spoke she didn't sound angry – she sounded sad. " _John, you were doing so well…I really thought you were going to stick to a regular routine_ …"

"It's none of your business." Her sympathy infuriated him, even though he knew all she'd done was call his home phone. He'd had no idea what the consequences would be, let alone her.

" _It bloody well is my business! I'm your boss, in case you've forgotten._ "

He remained stubbornly silent, breathing deeply through his nose, gripping the phone tightly. He could feel a headache starting up, zipping sharp lines of pain in-between his eyes and across the bridge of his nose.

" _Look, John, I really think you should try. I can give you a couple of days if you call in sick, but you'd better be here by Thursday._ "

"I'm not coming in," he repeated. "I'm not coming in today, and I'm not coming in Thursday, and I'm not coming in ever again. I quit."

" _What?_ " Her tone was incredulous. " _You can't just walk out!_ "

"Watch me. Find someone else. I can't come in any more." His throat tightened, his mouth stung, and his voice cracked, despite his best efforts to stop it. The words were out before he could consider them, before he could stop and think. "I've got to stay with him."

" _Stay with who? John, what's going on, what's wrong?_ "

"Sherlock," he breathed. "Sherlock came back. I've got to stay with him."

" _What the hell are you on about? Do you need someone to come over, I can ring someone…_ "

"No," he muttered. "No, please, don't tell anyone. But it's why I'm quitting."

He explained as briefly as he could, as coherently as he could. He didn't think she understood everything he babbled at her – hell, he wasn't sure she even believed him, at least not until he explained what had happened with the ringing phone. Perhaps she thought even he couldn't be quite that crazy and inventive at the same time.

In the end all she did was try and talk him out of it.

" _John, it's been three years. You let your whole life go off the rails after he…after everyone thought he died. Admit it, you were a wreck. But then you finally started to get it together, you got your job back, you were moving on. And now you're just going to throw it all away for him?_ "

His insides boiled indignantly. She didn't understand. He knew she didn't understand. "Yes."

" _You're mad. He sounds like he'd be better off in professional care. You could still visit_   _him._ "

Now he'd made his mind up that she didn't understand it was very easy to let everything she was saying pass through him with no effect. His voice steadied, his guts stopped churning, and he held the phone less tightly. "You think I should just stick him in a home with a bunch of strangers? You know as well as I do that wouldn't do him any good."

A sigh. " _So that's it? After everything he did, you're going to give up your whole life for him again_?"

"I wouldn't have a life to give up if he hadn't done it."

" _I think you're an idiot. But it's not my choice, is it?_ "

"No," he replied sharply. "It isn't. And don't tell anyone. About Sherlock." His tone softened. "I'm begging you." He couldn't cope with a media shitstorm in the midst of this. He'd crack under the strain, go mad, start screaming. He was hovering a hair's breadth away from a total breakdown, and the only thing stopping him snapping was the fact he knew doing that would make things worse for Sherlock. Having to deal with the public…he couldn't bear to imagine it.

" _I won't._   _I wouldn't do that to you._ " She paused. " _You know, normally people have to hand in resignation before they quit, right?_ "

"If you want me to come in you'll have to drag me."

She chuckled hoarsely. " _I don't know how you've managed, in the same sentence, to be the most selfish and most unselfish prick, but you've done it. I'll get someone to cover until we can get the place filled._ "

The side of his mouth turned up slightly. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

" _Yeah. Me too._ "

There was a click and the line went dead. John put down his mobile and took a deep breath. He was exhausted – he hadn't slept all night. His hand knocked the mobile onto the floor as his eyes slid shut and he drifted off, sprawled on the sofa with his chin resting on his chest.

* * *

It was a thump that pulled John from a half-formed dream of something vibrant and uncomfortable, causing him to start and jerk his head, blinking dazedly. The sun was now fully up, shining through the curtains and making the whole room bright, and for a couple of seconds he was confused, trying to remember something he was sure he shouldn't be forgetting…

Sherlock. Where was Sherlock?

He sat bolt upright, looking over towards the bedroom door where the sheets and pillow remained, empty – how stupid did he have to be to fall asleep after Sherlock had been so confused? If he'd woken up and thought he was alone…

Cursing himself, heart thudding uneasily in his chest, he got to his feet. "Sherlock?" he whispered. As much as he wanted to shout, he knew that would be the worst thing to do. He padded over to the blankets, spotted the sunglasses lying a few feet away from the pillow and picked them up with a frown. "Where are you?" He listened for breathing, trying to pick out a location. The light coming through the windows was strong; Sherlock's eyes had to be hurting. Where would he have gone?

The bathroom was the only place in the entire flat that didn't have a window, and John made a beeline for it, walking slowly, carefully. Panicky sweat beaded his upper lip – could someone have got in without his knowing, or could Sherlock have got out? The thought of what Sherlock would do, lost in the middle of London, made his throat contract uncomfortably.

It was only when he pushed open the bathroom door he finally heard something, a shuffle and a whimper, and then:

"John?"

Sherlock was lying pressed against the bathtub. He had one hand over his eyes; his shoulders were shaking, and they didn't stop trembling even when John knelt next to him and put a hand to his wrist.

"Right here."

"My eyes hurt…"

"You dropped your glasses," John replied, gently turning Sherlock's face towards him and pushing them onto his nose. The result was almost comical. "Better?"

Sherlock's lips twitched – he didn't exactly smile, but his shoulders relaxed and he remained looking up at John. "Mm."

John smiled and helped Sherlock sit up with his back against the tub. "You feeling better?"

Sherlock flinched. "Noise."

"I've stopped the sound on the phone now," John replied. "It won't bother you again; I'll tell everyone to ring my mobile instead."

He looked at Sherlock hopefully, trying to get some sort of positive reaction, but Sherlock didn't seem to be listening to him, looking up at the ceiling, a frown of what could have been discomfort, or confusion, or both, resting on his forehead. "What is it?" John coaxed, when it became apparent Sherlock wasn't going to say anything under his own steam.

"Can I pee?"

John blinked; not because Sherlock needed to pee – understandable even if he hadn't been drinking much – but because he seemed to be asking permission. He was reminded with a forcible jolt that he didn't know what kind of 'arrangements' Sherlock had had for the past months. He had hoped that…well, that Sherlock would be able to understand that this place was different to wherever he'd been.

"Yes, of course you can," he replied with a barely audible sigh, getting to his feet and holding out a hand. Sherlock grasped onto it with both of his own, scrabbling awkwardly to his feet. For a couple of seconds he looked at the toilet as if he barely recognised it, and John thought he was going to have to go through it with him, just like he had with the spoon – god, he wasn't sure he could take that. The thought of what Sherlock's former self would have said about it made him shudder.

He gave it another few moments, and eventually Sherlock seemed to work it out by himself; he limped towards the toilet, one hand brushing against the wall tiles, murky green ones John hated, but hadn't had the money to replace. John backed quickly out of the room and waited, cheeks flushed, knowing he shouldn't be embarrassed – circumstances were hardly  _normal_ at the moment – but uneasy all the same. He felt like he was walking, blindfolded, through a minefield.

The toilet flushed, but Sherlock didn't come out. John waited patiently, wondering if he was exploring the room, looking in the mirror or something, not wanting to interrupt, but after a whole two minutes had passed he poked his head round. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the small room, staring at the floor this time, but he looked up when John called him and raised his heels, balancing anxiously on the balls of his feet, although he remained in the same place as before.

"Aren't you coming out?" No response. John tried again. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock raised his head. John wished he could see his eyes through the glasses.

"You don't need to ask my permission to use the loo. Or come out of a room."

Sherlock might have been blinking at him in that confused way of his – John couldn't tell with the sunglasses blocking he view. He let out a sigh and moved closer.

"Do you need anything?"

Shake of the head. Right. Of course Sherlock didn't think he needed anything – he didn't expect anything. John tried re-wording things.

"What do you feel?" he asked, scrabbling for the right phrases. If he knew what Sherlock felt, then he could work on rectifying the bad and maintaining the good. Like doing sums.

Sherlock hesitated, gnawing on his bottom lip – his head had already slipped automatically back down so he was staring at the floor. "Cold," he whispered eventually. "Different. Tired." He stretched out a hand and put it on John's chest. "John."

"What is it?"

Sherlock clenched his fingers over John's ribs. "I feel you. You're still real."

"Of course I am," John murmured, putting his hand gently over the top of Sherlock's. He could barely breathe, and he could still feel sweat clinging to his temples as he attempted to remain calm. Panic was catching; he didn't want Sherlock to panic. In a desperate attempt to cover up his uncertainty, his fear, he babbled out the first words that came into his head. "Why don't you have a bath? It'll warm you up."

Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his head. "No."

John sighed and gently rubbed a thumb along the back of Sherlock's hand in a way he hoped was comforting. "Why not?"

"I'm not stupid."

John's jaw clenched, and wondered just how much he was going to have to unearth about the past three years before his stomach stopped rolling every time he heard about it. "Whatever happened before, it's not going to happen here. I'll stay with you, if you want, make sure you're safe."

Sherlock let out a soft whine in reply, his lips pressing more tightly together until John put his other hand under Sherlock's and held it tightly. Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again, and then tried again, finally forcing the words out. "You won't put my head under?"

John brought Sherlock's hand up and rested his forehead against it – the fingers were icy and shaking. Sherlock didn't react to the gesture; he just kept looking down. He looked four times smaller than he had a few minutes ago, when he'd almost – almost – smiled at the sight of John.

"I won't ever put your head under the water. I promise."

 


	10. Suds

Sherlock waited in the corner of the bathroom, on edge, bouncing on the balls of his feet and pressing his hands together whilst John ran the bath half-full – not deep enough to cause panic, hopefully – and checked the temperature. If he'd thought Sherlock could have got by in the shower he might have used that instead, but Sherlock wasn't steady on his feet, and if he damaged his ribs or ankle further it would just make the recovery process longer. Using the bath would save a lot of trouble in the long-run.

"Alright," he said when it was half-full, going over to Sherlock and helping him tug off his jumper and t-shirt and step out of his baggy trousers. In the end he decided to leave the boxers on, to protect the old Sherlock's modesty, even if the Sherlock in front of him didn't give a damn, so long as he wasn't being hurt. He felt his face flicker at the thought and had to take a deep breath to keep himself together. "Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to go?"

Sherlock's head turned towards the water and then back to John. "Stay." A pause. "Please."

A 'please' out of Sherlock had been, in the past, practically a cause to bring out champagne. John wished he'd demanded instead, shouted, and acted his old priggish self; shown the flash of anger that had appeared when he'd first shouted that he wasn't stupid. He forced himself to give Sherlock a reassuring smile and helped him limp to the tub and scramble over the side. The water soaked into the gauze on his leg in an instant, turning it grey. Sherlock looked down at it and bit at his lip.

"When?"

"When you were asleep," John replied quickly, kneeling down on the bathmat. "It's nothing big, just a few bandages to make you more comfortable. I put them on," he lied.

"Oh." Sherlock shuffled in the water, shoulder blades threatening to burst through his skin. The sunglasses dangled precariously off his nose, looking thoroughly ridiculous. "This water is warm," he murmured eventually.

"Mm-hm," John said, smiling encouragingly. "Is that good?"

"Yes." Sherlock raised his hand and balanced his fingers on the surface of the water with an air of concentration and curiosity. "It's comfortable."

John rummaged for the shampoo, not that Sherlock really needed it with most of his hair shaved off. It would grow back, he reminded himself. Eventually. "Here." He pushed the bottle into Sherlock's undamaged right hand. Sherlock looked at it with no indication he knew what it was, then turned to John for guidance. Water droplets dappled the bandages and his stick-thin arms. John reached forwards and flicked the top off the bottle for him. "Just put it on your hair," he said.

Sherlock's seemed to have a hard time grasping the bottle, although eventually he managed to get a little shampoo on his fingers, but as he brought his hand up to his head a spasm of pain made his face twist and his grip loosen. The bottle bounced off his knee with a sharp thunk and slid into the bath as John leaned forwards, concerned. Sherlock flinched as soon as he got close.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock was staring down at the water again. His spine looked like a set of rounded teeth under his skin. "Hurts."

"When you lift your arm up?" A nod. "Where?"

Sherlock pointed to the bruises on his chest with one finger. "I won't do it again." He lifted his arms up and began to resolutely apply the shampoo to his head, despite the grimace that clearly showed it wasn't doing him any good. "Don't hurt John."

"Hey," John said, putting a hand to Sherlock's pushing it away. Shampoo rubbed off on his wrist, a sharp, fruity tang filling his nose. He shouldn't buy the perfumed stuff in the future – it made him feel ill. Or perhaps it was the tone of Sherlock's voice. "John, remember? I'm fine."

Sherlock looked up, seemed to squint, and then his shoulders relaxed and he pushed his shampoo-y head towards John's chest, splashing them both in the process. The sunglasses dug into John's ribcage. "I forgot."

John sighed and put an arm gently around Sherlock's back. "That's alright," he murmured, making a mental note to give Sherlock his second dose of painkillers – it had to be after midday by now. It felt like it. "I'll do your hair today, so you don't have to reach up."

He eased Sherlock back into a sitting position in the bath and retrieved the slippery bottle. Both of them were covered in shampoo already, but most of it had rubbed off onto his shirt, so he put more on his hand and gently began to lather Sherlock's fuzz of hair. Bubbles burst up around his hands immediately, tickling his skin, and Sherlock made a snuffling noise as the suds slipped down his neck and back, and forwards onto his forehead. John carefully wiped them off before it could get under the sunglasses and into his eyes.

When the whole of Sherlock's head was nicely lathered John reached for the jug. "Close your eyes," he murmured, scooping up water and getting the bottom of his sleeves soggy. Sherlock nodded and John slowly began to pour water onto his head, washing the suds away bit by bit until what was left of Sherlock's hair was revealed again.

"Smells of berries," Sherlock mumbled when John put the jug back down. "You used to buy lemon shampoo."

John blinked and got up – his knees creaked uncomfortably, reminding him that he really wasn't young enough to be kneeling on a hard floor for long periods of time – to go to the airing cupboard and find a fresh towel.

"It was cheaper. Besides, I thought it was time for a change," he replied, shrugging and holding the towel out. Sherlock glanced at it, and after a couple of seconds' hesitation got shakily to his feet and clambered awkwardly out of the bath, spattering water onto John's socks.

"You've changed a lot of things," he said as John wrapped the towel around his shoulders and turned to pull the plug out of the bath. "This isn't 221b."

John looked back and, seeing Sherlock was making no effort to dry himself, began to rub at his shoulders through the towel. Sherlock just stood placidly, looking at the floor.

"You'd been gone for a long time." John couldn't bring himself to look Sherlock in the eyes. "I thought it was time to…change things a bit. It was better for me that way, it meant I could start to-" Hastily he stopped, cut himself off.

"Move on." Sherlock's voice came out as barely more than a rasp.

John flushed and brought the towel up to rub the top of Sherlock's head dry, being careful not to press too hard on any of the cuts which still showed starkly on his pale scalp. He didn't reply because he didn't know what to say, didn't know how Sherlock would react.

In the end, Sherlock reacted by turning round and sitting, cross-legged on the floor at John's feet and resting his head against John's knees. John, still holding the towel in both hands, stared at him, concerned, mind running through everything from 'low blood pressure' to 'shutdown'.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, putting the damp towel over the side of the bath and stepping back, pulling his foot away from Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock, what're you doing, what's wrong?"

Sherlock looked up at him, sunglasses slipping down his nose. John could see him blinking uncomfortably as the light filtered into his unprepared eyes; they were glazed again, pained and not-quite-there.

"I'll kiss your feet if you let me stay," he murmured, shuffling forwards on his bum towards John, who couldn't step any further back without tumbling into the bath. He was fairly sure his mouth was hanging open, unable to register much through the thought that the Sherlock he'd once known would never have kissed  _anyone's_ feet, even if he'd had a gun to his head. He'd have said something clever and probably got himself shot in the process.

"No," he managed to choke out eventually, swallowing and feeling his Adam's apple bob uncomfortably in his tight throat. He knelt down in front of Sherlock and looked at him intently. "No, god no, I don't want you to kiss my feet."

"Oh." Sherlock was biting his bottom lip, worrying the skin between his teeth and leaving tiny flecks of blood on his incisors. John continued to look at him, trying to get him to understand – as if thinking it over and over again would somehow help. There were a couple of seconds where he thought that he might have got through, and then Sherlock leaned up and began to nuzzle his neck, lips bumping clumsily, awkwardly, along John's throat and up to his jaw.

John froze, twenty different trains of thought running through his head at the same time as he crouched in wet socks and with Sherlock Holmes…it wasn't quite kissing, but it wasn't far off either, and as soon as he realised fear slid into him like a knife. It took an embarrassingly long time for him to engage himself, seize Sherlock's shoulders and push him gently back.

"No. Stop it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked puzzled, back to biting his lower lip. John reached up and wiped away the small amount of blood and saliva clinging to his neck. His heart was pounding guiltily as he remembered times he might have enjoyed having Sherlock kiss him and making him feel like some sort of creep; he'd got too close, given too much contact under the guise of being reassuring. Shame pressed down on him, even though he was sick of it, so sick and tired of feeling guilty. The words of his Hippocratic Oath hovered in the back of his mind, pulsing in time to his breathing.

He felt unclean. Sherlock was so confused, so scared, and he'd thought…god knew what he'd thought.

"Don't. Please, you don't have to do that. You can't. I don't want you to kiss my feet, or any other part of me." He should have been clearer on that from the outset. Stupid mistake. "Sherlock, why did you do that?"

The hesitation stretched for a few seconds, the bottom lip torn even further during the space of time. "You said not your feet. I want you to let me stay." Sherlock turned to tuck his head into his shoulder, like a bird settling down to roost; only he was too tense to look like he was ready to sleep. His voice, when he spoke, was muffled by his arm. "Don't make me go."

John's forehead crinkled, and he dithered for a few seconds before taking a hold of Sherlock's shoulders, gently making him turn his head, so they were facing each other again. If he'd felt only platonically towards Sherlock he might have rubbed his thumbs over the collarbones in the hope it would soothe and comfort, but as it was he kept his hands as much to himself as possible. He had to be more careful. He couldn't allow Sherlock to get the wrong idea, not in his state; it would confuse him, make him feel obliged…John wanted to vomit at the thought. Everything had to remain bottled up and hidden, growing dusty in the corners of his mind.

"I'm not going to do that," he murmured. "You can stay as long as you like, and I'll look after you no matter what, because I care about you." He swallowed tightly. "You don't have to kiss me. I don't want you to."

Sherlock frowned, eyeing John with the air of someone worried they were walking into a trap, but eventually nodded. John helped him to his feet, hooking an arm around the small of Sherlock's back and lifting. Sherlock's skin was still damp, slightly cold. He helped him to the bed where he sat, cross-legged and uncomfortable, right in the centre of the mattress. The gauze was soggy – John would have to change it. And get Sherlock to eat and drink something, if he could.  _And_  he was due his next doses, not to mention a meal…

The list of things to do was growing dauntingly long. John didn't have time to dwell on what he felt, on what had happened, even if it was making his eyes sting. He had to get started.

As he headed for the lounge, scrubbing a hand across his sore eyes – keep it hidden, it was probably just the smell of the shampoo, nothing to get worried about – there was a knock at the door, two sharp raps. John immediately turned back to look at Sherlock, who'd brought his arms up reflexively to wrap around his shoulders, lowering his head again, a line of pain appearing on his forehead as he moved into the defensive position. John sighed, went back to him.

"I'll be back in a second," he murmured. "Promise."

He got no reply.


	11. Organisation

It was Mycroft, umbrella in his hand and a file under his arm. John wished all the visitors and callers would bugger off, mostly because his guilt felt tattooed on his face, a glaring signal that told everyone exactly what had happened, invited them to drag Sherlock away from him.

"What do you want?" he muttered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I informed you I would be coming at some point to check on Sherlock and discuss what steps need to be taken. He is, in case you've forgotten, my brother."

John paused for all of two seconds before speaking. "You might have told me he was alive though."

"I'm afraid I don't-"

"Yes you do." John stepped back to allow Mycroft into the room and closed the door, carefully. "Molly said she wasn't the only person to help him. As much as Sherlock doesn't get on with you even he would have to realise that you'd be a useful…asset in his crazy schemes. Money, fake ID, whatever else he needed." He was talking in monotone, lacking the energy to get worked up and angry. He hadn't even consciously understood it had been Mycroft who'd helped Sherlock until he'd spoken out loud. It had been the sight of him, the perfect example of calm and organisation, that had been enough to give it away.

Mycroft let out a barely perceptible sigh, and stopped denying it.

"It was for your own security, I assure you. Had you known of Sherlock's existence in the first months you would very likely have ended up shot within a day. Two if you were lucky. Even later on, it wasn't entirely safe for you."

John snorted and went to get the too-cheerful tray, checking the medicines on it and removing the ones that didn't need to be taken until evening. "You stood at his grave and let me read out my speech about him."

The silence was telling, and when John took it on himself to actually look up at him he saw Mycroft's face was arranged into something that looked almost…distressed. More than discomforted, at least. "Although both I and Sherlock were gratified you hadn't guessed what had truly happened – the cyclist and the lorry, you understand – neither of us had any true wish to keep it from you. Your emotion was extremely disconcerting."

_Disconcerting._ John rolled his eyes. "I need to give Sherlock these," he said, hefting the tray so it was steadied on one hip and bending at the knees with expert balance to pick up the sheets with his spare hand. "And then he needs to eat something. Then we can talk."

To his surprise Mycroft followed him nearly to the doorway of the bedroom, where he stood uncomfortably, leaning on his umbrella. "I would like to see Sherlock, if he'll allow it."

John stopped in the act of shouldering open the door, heart pounding. What if Sherlock said something about earlier? He didn't doubt Mycroft could have Sherlock taken away from him in less than an hour, if he deemed John an unfit guardian and, selfishly, John didn't want to be alone again. He knew with a burning, acidic sensation at the back of his throat that he couldn't afford to lose Sherlock. Not a second time.

"He's not been too good for the past half-hour, hardly recognised me." He kept his tone measured and professional. "He might not understand."

"All the same, I'd like you to ask."

John shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, swallowing tightly. "Fine. I'll be a couple of minutes with this, and then I'll go and make lunch. You can talk to him then."

Mycroft gave him a tight nod, and John pushed the door open and went to the bed, where Sherlock was sitting in exactly the same position as he had been before. John dropped the blankets on the mattress and set the tray down on the bedside table, pushing a lamp out of the way and almost upsetting it in the process. "Not as many to take this time," he said, giving Sherlock a small, false smile.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he didn't protest either, so John took the first bottle and a pill onto his hand. He handed the glass of water on the tray to Sherlock and waited.

Sherlock looked, as he'd done before, to the pills, to John and back again. John was patient, waiting for Sherlock to get his bearings and remember the experience he'd had earlier, hoping he was back with him enough to put the fact he hadn't spontaneously vomited together with the fact it was John offering the tablets.

It seemed he was in luck – after about thirty seconds hesitation Sherlock reached out and tentatively picked the pill up from John's palm, put it in his mouth and swallowed water. He still looked nervous, but took the rest without question, although his hands shook. John gave him an encouraging smile and put the bottles back, then, seeing Sherlock was still shivering in just his damp boxers, he pulled the blankets up around his shoulders. Sherlock, to his gratification, actually galvanised himself enough to help keep them in place, bony fingers gripping the material.

"Feeling better?" John asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Cold."

John pursed his lips. "I'll get you something hot to eat." He hesitated. "But before that, your brother wants to see you."

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, questioningly. "Mycroft?"

"Yes," John said, surprised and pleased. "He wants to talk to you." Sherlock didn't exactly look happy, but at least he'd shown some recognition. For a second or two John debated whether he should say 'don't tell him about the bathroom', but he decided that would be absolutely fatal. He couldn't act guilty; couldn't let guilt show. He hadn't done anything wrong, he told himself firmly.

So he said nothing, apart from "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." Mycroft slipped inside the room and closed to door behind him. Part of John wanted to stay and listen at the keyhole, but the rest of him knew he shouldn't, so he forced himself to move away. Lunch. Something high-calorie, but plain. And hot.

He looked around the kitchen, and, deciding he didn't want to make soup again, finally settled on porridge. Not exactly a lunchtime thing, but it would be quick to make, easy to eat, and full of energy. He smiled to himself as the thought passed through his head – sometimes he sounded more like a doctor than even he expected. He warmed milk and poured it over the oats until he had a pale mush filling the bowl, sprinkled brown sugar on top as an afterthought, and went to the bedroom door, entering as softly as he could manage.

Sherlock was sitting, still surrounded by the blankets, with Mycroft's umbrella in his hands, examining it closely. Mycroft had seated himself on the stool in the corner, looking almost crestfallen as he surveyed his brother.

"I brought porridge," John said, over-cheerful in his attempt to break the silence. He could feel sadness clinging to Mycroft, in the way his shoulders were slumped and his mouth tense. It was strange – John had only ever seen him self-assured; or at least the picture of unshakable calm in situations that would have made most people tear at their hair and go into screaming fits.

Mycroft got to his feet and slipped silently out of the room. John sighed and approached Sherlock, who was so engrossed with the umbrella John had to touch his arm to make him put it down and look at the bowl.

"You hungry?" he asked, settling down on the edge of the bed and holding the porridge out. Sherlock nodded frantically; his whole demeanour became eager, and he leaned forwards. John picked up the spoon and handed it to him, just as he had with the soup. That time, Sherlock had been far more confused; intimidated, half-blind and in pain. This time, John prayed he'd understand.

Sherlock looked at the spoon suspiciously, and then took it, gripping it in entirely the wrong way; by the head instead of the handle. John gently corrected him, and then offered the bowl. Sherlock looked up, staring John full in the face, although his expression was partially hidden by the sunglasses, and it was difficult to tell what he was thinking.

It always had, John reminded himself, been difficult to tell what Sherlock had been thinking.

"Can I?"

John gulped, feeling his throat tighten again. "Yes. Of course you can. You don't need to ask." He gently took Sherlock's arm, careful to grip below the bandages on his strained wrist and put Sherlock's hand to the bowl. Sherlock hesitated, as if hardly daring to believe what was happening, then grasped the bowl as tightly as his wrist would allow and pushed the spoon into the porridge. His hand trembled, but he brought it quickly up to his mouth and gulped the food desperately.

"Careful," John murmured. "Eat it slowly, alright? No-one's going to take it away."

Sherlock didn't seem to believe him, angling his shoulder and curling around the bowl as if would be snatched at any moment. John got the distinct impression that if he hadn't been handed the spoon he would have crammed porridge into his mouth with his bare hands.

"I'm going to go talk to your brother," John said eventually, resignedly, tugging at his earlobe as he got to his feet. "But I'll be outside if you need me. Just call."

Sherlock paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth, a shadow flitting over his face, and swallowed. "Outside?"

"In the lounge," John corrected. "I'll be able to hear you if you say anything."

Sherlock hesitated, and then nodded. "If you promise."

"I promise."

Sherlock went back to his porridge, more slowly than before, and John could feel his eyes on his back as he stepped out of the room and left the door ajar. Mycroft had settled himself in John's favourite armchair, looking deflated without his umbrella to keep his hands occupied. John threw himself down on the sofa with a tired groan and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Right. Talk. No big words please."

Mycroft sighed, and his suit rustled as he shifted on the chair. "My brother told me, exactly nineteen months and fourteen days ago, that he was going into deep cover, and wouldn't be in touch for a year, probably more. He was intent upon getting close to someone whom he was convinced had been Moriarty's right hand man, and refused to listen to my misgivings. Until now I had assumed that the reason he hadn't contacted me for more than a year and a half was that he was still undercover."

"I'm not blaming you," John muttered. He was too tired to blame anyone at the moment. Maybe later. Probably later. "Although I think you were batshit crazy to allow him to embark on this in the first place. Molly said he was trying to take out Moriarty's associates. Hardly a one-man job."

"My brother is very difficult to dissuade once he sets his mind on something." It seemed John's throat wasn't the only one that felt strained – Mycroft's tone was even more clipped than usual. "I can only assume Sherlock has been in the possession, for want of a better word, of some or one of the people he was trying to bring down. When I tried to probe him for information just now, he refused to tell me anything, although I'm sure you've been able to gauge more about his condition…"

John snorted. "I've tried. I'll email you a bloody list of things if you want me to."

To his surprise, Mycroft made a noise of assent. "That would be extremely useful. Although his medical file is detailed, it is purely physical."

"He's been tortured," John said, even though he knew Mycroft probably didn't want to hear; he spoke before he could stop himself. "Water, mild poisons, knives, food deprivation, sensory overload, the whole lot. I've been making notes and I don't think I've even got halfway through what's been done to him. He tried to kiss my feet earlier."

There was a sharp clatter – Mycroft had knocked over a lamp. For the first time John saw him lose his cool as he scrabbled to pick it up, colour rising in his cheeks. It made him look twice as old.

"That is…surprising."

"The man whose number was posted to me was male, English, or at least he sounded it. He made it seem like he'd given Sherlock back to hurt me. Stop me 'moving on'. And I doubt he's finished with us after just one call."

Mycroft's lips twitched down and he fiddled uncomfortably with a loose thread on the arm of the chair. "I see. It's quite possible he's close by and observing you; I'll arrange a twenty-four hour watch on the flat."

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't protest – he wasn't willing to take chances at the moment. The man had sounded like he meant business. He'd sounded almost  _sane_ ; that was what was most unnerving.

"I want him caught."

Mycroft inclined his head. "I assure you that you are not alone in that sentiment." His fingers were clasped tightly together. "If you could provide me with the phone number you were given it's possible we can track him down."

"Only if he's ridiculously careless," John snorted.

"Nevertheless, it's worth the attempt."

John dug into his pocket and retrieved the little card with the number on it, and then reached under the sofa for the box he'd kept, and handed both of them to Mycroft. "That's what Sherlock arrived in," he muttered as Mycroft's fingers brushed against the stiff cardboard. "I'm sure you can do something fancy to work out where it came from."

Mycroft got to his feet with a tight nod. His tone became even more brisk and curt as he rattled off a list with the same efficiency of a machine gun spewing out bullets. "Sherlock has an appointment with a dentist in one week who'll call around to the flat privately and ask no questions. I expect you to keep me updated with your ideas and observations via email. Sherlock used to enjoy peanut butter when he was younger; I'm sure you could turn his fondness for it to your advantage. And turn your fire alarm back on."

John's didn't question how Mycroft knew; the instruction manual for it and the phone were still on the side table. "I don't want it bother him if it goes off," he replied, heaving himself off the sofa.

"Nevertheless, I'd rather you be warned of an imminent fire," Mycroft said smoothly, heading towards the door. "And, as you've quit your job, I should probably inform you Sherlock has a trust fund which is managed by me. It should provide sufficient means for as long as is required. Anything else you need can be discussed if you call or text."

"You don't miss a trick, do you?" John muttered, feeling overwhelmed again.

"It's my job to be organised." Mycroft turned with a swishing noise towards the exit, and then hesitated with his hand on the door to the corridor. "I suppose I don't need to tell you that, although I appreciate what you're doing for my brother, you are in no way obligated to do so, and if you feel it to be too much it would be far better to give it up now than allow him to grow dependant on you and then leave him."

John's stomach churned with indignation as he stood by the sofa. "I can handle it," he ground out. "I'm not going to leave him with strangers. I care about him."

He immediately wondered if he'd given too much away, but if Mycroft noticed the change in his expression, the strange, tiny ticks the Holmes brothers picked up on that no-one else saw, then he didn't mention it.

"In that case, I thank you, although I would no more allow Sherlock to go over to strangers than you would." John felt himself flush, and opened his mouth to say that wasn't what he'd been implying, that he hadn't been thinking straight, but Mycroft cut across him. "Don't bother sending on my umbrella; I have a spare at my apartment."

He was gone before John could reply.

By the time John made his way back through to Sherlock he found him asleep, huddled under the mess of blankets and pillows as if he were an egg in a nest, head flopped limply at the wrong end of the bed, and with the umbrella clasped in one hand.


	12. Rhyme

John was woken from the uneasy sleep he'd dropped into because he'd been too exhausted to do anything productive, sprawled on the sofa with his mouth hanging open unattractively, by a click. He sat up with a grunt, neck cracking, and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. The flat was dark, the sort of purplish-blue that came with late evening, and he fumbled for the nearest lamp, almost knocking the file he'd left on the side table to the floor. He hadn't given Sherlock his dinner, or medication. Damn.

The light went on and he sat up a little straighter, looking around the room, hair sticking up in a tousled mess. At a first glance the lounge seemed empty, until he saw something move by the bedroom door – he immediately put it down as the source of the click – and managed to focus enough to see Sherlock, still in his boxers and with the sheets hopelessly tangled around his ankles, take a few stumbling steps out of the bedroom. He walked straight into a chair before John could stop him, staggered round it, righted himself, and continued.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't even turn his head to show he'd heard, but at that moment he turned a corner, and John saw he'd lost his sunglasses, and his eyes were half-closed, glazed and dopey.

"Sherlock," John said again, softly, clambering off the sofa and going to him, being careful not to make too much noise – he knew sleepwalking when he saw it. Harry had done it when she was younger. Once she'd managed to lock herself out of the hotel room they were staying in and roused the whole corridor banging on the door to be let back in when she'd woken herself up. He touched Sherlock's bare arm, not hard enough to wake and panic him, but enough to get his attention. Slowly, as if he were moving underwater, Sherlock turned his head and made a low humming noise that could have been an attempt at words.

"Come on; let's get you back to bed…"

"Mmf," came the reply, sleep-heavy and confused. "Can't." Sherlock took a hobbling step forwards, almost walking right into a wall, which he pressed a hand to. It might have been comical if things had been the way they were before.

"Why not?" John whispered, bending down and ridding Sherlock's ankles of the sheets they were wrapped in before he broke his neck.

"Got to…" Sherlock hesitated; he sounded drunk, voice deep and slurring, like someone in a TV programme that was being played at half-speed. "Got to go home."

"You are home," John replied, straightening up and putting the sheets over one shoulder. "You need to go back to bed."

Sherlock shook his head. "Got to get back to…to John. John'll be upset." He gave a sleepy whine. "Let me go home."

"Shh," John said, taking Sherlock's hand and tugging on it gently as he stepped forwards. Sherlock followed him obediently, continuing to mutter to himself as John guided him back to the bedroom.

"Go home." His voice kept dropping on and off, so that John only caught odd snatches of sentences. "Sad…can't let him…no…John…go home…let me…walls…don't like these walls…"

"Here we go," John murmured, standing Sherlock in front of the bed and throwing the sheets back down on it. The umbrella was on the floor, so he stooped to pick it up and placed it in the corner of the room, where no-one could trip on it in the dark. Sherlock stood swaying, until he finally fell back onto the covers, legs over the side of the bed and one arm thrown across his hips.

"John…got to go home…too long…time…hurts…"

"I know," John whispered. "You're home now."

Sherlock nodded and rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the sheets so his mutterings became entirely incoherent. John carefully eased his legs up onto the bed and wrapped the sheets around him again, then checked the clock on the table. Seven in the evening. He was surprised – the bad weather must have made the skies dark earlier, because he'd been convinced it must be getting on for nine or ten.

He yawned and stretched, found the sunglasses under one of the pillows and put them on top of the clock, and went to the kitchen in the hopes of distracting himself from the fact Sherlock had never sleepwalked before. Stress trigger, possibly. The mental image of him walking around in circles, alone, in whatever hell had been his home for the past eighteen months, made John's eyes sting.

The fridge offered nothing appetising, but appetising wasn't the point, so John dutifully got out chicken breasts and put them in a frying pan before rummaging for carrots and oven chips. The kitchen warmed quickly, and he stood watching the food with his hands clasped tightly around a mug of tea, biting at his lower lip and checking on Sherlock every few minutes to make sure he wasn't trying to wander off again. He also added 'Sleepwalking and talking, harmless so far' to the bottom of his growing list of notes.

His mobile made a soft buzzing noise just as he was flipping over the chicken breasts, and he fished it out of his pocket with a sigh.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

John stiffened, dropping his spatula with a clatter; the grating tone, the voice of a sane man who'd done something so entirely insane the world still seemed to be reeling. The voice was un-flowery, the mocking undertone played down. It was almost worse than open goading. The warm kitchen suddenly felt far too hot.

"Who are you?"

"How stupid do you think I am? I'm not going to give you anything that'll allow Big Brother to track me down. I see he's already got someone watching you."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing in particular. An update as to how you're getting along; I miss him a bit, you know. He was a lot of trouble, but he was company when he wasn't screaming."

"Stop it," John snarled. "Just stop it…"

"I never thought it'd be possible to scream and cry so much at the same time, but there you have it. Breaking points. I bet you found a few of those in the war, didn't you?"

John remained silent, trying to breathe deeply and calmly, and failing.

"It's so hard to adjust, isn't it, after it's all over? Don't tell me you never sat there and looked at that gun you own. Just thought about it. Everyone thinks about it, they just don't admit it."

"You were a soldier?" John murmured, picking up on the only thing that seemed to filter through his screaming thoughts. There was a pause, too lengthy to be for dramatic effect, which made him wonder if the man had just let slip something he hadn't meant to. John's eyes flicked towards his laptop.

"Still not given him up then? I bet he's a lot of work. Has he cried for you yet?"

John understood; he knew the man was trying to make him angry enough to forget what he'd just said, and he wasn't going to. No matter what he was told, no matter how much it hurt, he'd glean everything he could.

"He will. If you hurt him enough, he'll cry. It's a rather disgusting thing to watch, but necessary. Can't break without tears."

The chicken was burning. Very slowly, with the phone still clasped to his ear, John reached out and switched off the hob.

"He doesn't have to be so much trouble. All you have to do is hurt him a bit, and he'll do whatever you want. It'd be far simpler."

John bristled. "Is that what you're trying to do? Make me hurt him? Because whatever happens, I would never hurt him."

"Mm. I must say, I had hoped you might. He let you grieve for him, remember? He let you suffer because of his ego, because he thought he was cleverer than everyone else. He made you watch him die, made you think it was your fault. You did think it was your fault, didn't you? He knew you would. He didn't care about you."

The words were painful, even though he knew they shouldn't be.

"You're the king's men, John; you don't have a chance of mending him. He's broken. I made sure of it." The voice had taken on an airy, musing tone. The smell of chicken was making John feel sick. "No-one would believe him if he said you made him behave."

"If this is your plan," he ground out. "It's not working. You can say whatever you like; I won't listen."

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?"

"I'll find you."

"Going to leave him by himself whilst you go hunting? Seems a little…irresponsible of you." There was a pause in which John began to open his mouth without having a clue what to say, but he was cut off before he could blurt something out. "I have another delivery for you; it should be arriving in a couple of minutes."

"What?" he burst out, but it was already too late; the line went dead. This time it took double the self-control not to throw and break the phone; instead John stood with it clasped in his hand, staring at the screen. He tried pressing re-dial, but the number had been blocked.

He had something, and that was what he consoled himself with; he knew the man had been a soldier. Maybe he'd even been in the same war. Perhaps this had been his plan – to make John angry enough to hurt Sherlock. In that case, the plan had failed. He felt oddly proud of the fact, as if he'd had some kind of last laugh.

He'd just about managed to calm himself and was adding the words 'ex-soldier, had difficulty adjusting to civilian life' to his typed lists when his phone buzzed again, a short burst that indicated a text.

It was a video, compressed into SMS from a blocked number. John didn't want to see it – he didn't want to know – but his fingers pressed the open button before he could stop them.

The footage was grainy, and the sound tinny and full of static, but it was clear enough for him to recognise Sherlock, curled on the floor of something that looked cold and gritty, a stone room, perhaps, no windows, with his head pushed into the crook of his arm. He was filthy, and there was a large slash on his shoulder, pixelated and small on the video, but there all the same. John could correlate it with a long scar he'd seen on Sherlock's skin earlier.

The person holding the camera gave nothing of themselves away; they didn't even speak as they stepped forward. John watched, eyes wide with horror, as they pushed a heavy black shoe over the cut in Sherlock's shoulder, shoving down and then grinding with a deft, practiced twist of the ankle. Sherlock jolted and cried out, a long, hoarse moan that grew into an animalistic shriek as the toe was rammed into the exposed flesh, and eventually eased into a distressed sobbing as the shoe was removed, blood staining the end.

The whole thing only lasted thirty seconds. John felt as if it had been both four lifetimes and a single heartbeat, a dizzy, disorientating sensation that made his stomach lurch.

He watched it a second time, and a third, with a horrified fascination that made his throat burn. He forwarded it to Mycroft, explaining what it was and that the man at the end of the phone had most likely been in the army, begging him to see if he could track them down from the video.

And then he went calmly to the bathroom, careful not to wake Sherlock as he passed the bed, and threw up in the toilet, very, very quietly.


	13. Time

"We can't find him."

John, phone pressed to his ear and one hand stirring a pan of peas, focused his attention away from the soothing effect of the swirling vegetables. He'd been expecting a reply ever since he'd forwarded the video to Mycroft, and that had been two days ago. He was dog tired – he didn't particularly want to hear this couldn't end soon.

"What do you mean?"

"The phone was destroyed almost immediately after you received the video – we traced it to the London and the outlying area, but I'm sure you appreciate that tells us nothing. Same results for the number on the back of the card."

John silently cursed the cheapness of modern mobiles. "What about the box?"

"A factory in Northumberland, but they've got no idea where it was sent to after production. We got CCTV footage from the van that dropped it off, but no ID on the men – they had hats and scarves, very little to see."

"What about the number plate?"

"Fake."

John groaned, stirring the peas again, too violently; one flew out of the pan and burned the back of his hand. "No leads. They did their homework."

Mycroft made a soft noise of assent. "I'm sorry, John. Your information about his military past certainly narrows the field, but…the numbers of British men returned from the army, even just in the past ten years, are immense."

John scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Right. I understand."

"I have informed Mrs Hudson of Sherlock's return." Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Although I must admit, I glossed rather considerably over his…condition."

"Don't call it that," John snapped, angrier at the fact Mycroft had gone behind his back than the choice of words.

"Of course. She told me to inform you she doesn't want to come round yet in case it bothers him. She requested regular updates and wishes you the best, but I think it wise she doesn't find out what he's really like."

John could feel a muscle in his jaw throbbing; every time Mycroft referred to the immense change that had taken place, it made his heart tremble. "If that's what she wants." His tone was curt; he could feel the sourness of the words like lemon juice on his tongue. Not because of Mrs Hudson – she'd seen a lot of pain, and she didn't need to see any more, not when it came to Sherlock – but because Mycroft always made him feel confused, out of control. John had never liked feeling out of control. He had to be either giving or following orders, nothing in-between. Here, he had no-one to give orders to, nothing to follow.

There was the sound at the other end of the line, a clunk, probably Mycroft putting down a glass, something heavy and expensive. "We are trying. To catch him."

"What if that's not good enough? What if he comes back?"

"You needn't worry. The guards are on full alert for any strangers who might approach the house."

John rolled his eyes. "How comforting. Call me if you get anything new."

"You have my word." Mycroft paused, very briefly. "But if anything should happen…I trust you to protect him."

John almost tipped the pan over, but Mycroft rang off before he could come up with a reply.

* * *

Time moved quickly. Wake, breakfast, medicine, lunch, medicine, dinner, medicine, sleep, repeat. There was pain and the changing of bandages and the gentle persuasion involved at mealtimes and making Sherlock remember how to use his toothbrush and an electric razor – never a blade – and terrified shrieking in the dark. Sherlock sleepwalked at least once a night. Sometimes twice, sometimes three or four times. Sometimes he'd simply be confused as to where he was, and other times he'd start screaming so loudly John was convinced the neighbours would come running. They never did.

John felt like he spent half his life on the phone; to Greg, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, even Sarah once or twice, and every time he heard the buzzing of his mobile his heart would freeze between his ribs, just in case it was the man he couldn't put a name to. At least twice a day he'd almost convince himself he was ready to give up, that he couldn't stand it a second longer, until he realised there was more than waiting for the phone to ring; there was sitting, as well, just sitting and remembering that Sherlock was alive. And, in some strange way, it made up for everything enough for him to be able to bear it.

They had good days and bad days. On good days Sherlock might talk to John a little or, more often than not, simply sit and listen to him speak. He'd make decisions about what to eat, perhaps ask for a cup of tea. After a week John removed the sunglasses, although he kept the lights dim, and tracked Sherlock's facial expressions when they held their one-sided conversations, making sure he didn't distress him. When they weren't talking Sherlock liked to listen to music on the battered CD player John had owned for donkey's years. The chatter of the radio which had filled the apartment before his arrival became sound of classical music, slow and rhythmic, and very quiet.

On bad days, Sherlock would keep forgetting where he was, whimper, and get easily confused. On days John termed 'Hell' it would be all he could do to get Sherlock to remember his own name. Sometimes he'd spend hours in bed with his arms wrapped around his head, jerking away whenever John brushed past him.

The dentist came on a bad day. John tried to explain to Sherlock exactly what was going to happen, but he might as well have been talking to the skull – when had he allowed himself to remember the skull? – for all the good it did. In the end, desperate and close to panicking, John slipped one of the sedative pills into Sherlock's tea, forcing him into a pliable, glazed state, like a doll in a toyshop window. Existing, but not  _there_. The dentist asked no questions, just as promised, not enquiring as to why he was doing his examination in a lounge with a patient who didn't speak. John sat Sherlock next to him on the sofa, put his hand firmly on his arm, and held him steady as the dentist poked around with metal instruments and said that a change in toothpaste and laying off hard or chewy foods would suffice to build up the strength of the teeth and gums again. If Sherlock remembered the experience he didn't mention it.

There were a lot of things neither of them mentioned.

Sherlock turned into something of a magpie, making himself a collection of things which he kept in the bed; the umbrella, which he liked to sit with on his lap and just look at; John's now-useless cane, which he must have picked up from under the sofa without John noticing, too busy to think about his leg; the yellow tray, which he refused to let out of his room, forcing John to dig out the one with the cat on he didn't like; John's oatmeal jumper. The bed became a kind of safe haven for Sherlock; somewhere he could calm and collect his thoughts.

Mycroft visited about once every week to try and engage Sherlock in conversation, but the results were mostly long, awkward silences that left Sherlock exhausted and John disappointed.

On the other hand, Sherlock slowly became accustomed to Greg's presence in the flat, seeming to retain, just as he had done with Mycroft, memory of his name and face. He was far more inclined to relax with Greg than he was with his brother, and John liked having him around because it made him feel like he wasn't entirely cut off from the rest of the world. Sherlock would sometimes detach himself from John's presence and go instead to hover near Greg and fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves or, if it was a bad day, sit on the floor near him. One of Greg's spare ID passes soon joined the collection of things on the bed, and it was Greg who finally persuaded John to buy a second mattress, which they set up just outside the door to the bedroom. It was bizarre, sleeping in the lounge with his feet towards the kitchen, but at least he could hear if Sherlock left the room to sleepwalk.

Diane knocked on his door to ask if he was alright because she hadn't seen him in a little while. He was deliberately distant to the point of being rude towards her so she wouldn't come back. They started to leave wrongly delivered mail on each other's mats instead of delivering it in person.

John didn't go outside because he couldn't leave Sherlock alone, and Sherlock gave no indication of wanting to leave the flat. He did the shopping online and spent time when he wasn't cooking or writing up notes or sorting out medicines talking to Sherlock.

Since the bathroom incident, John was hyper-aware of his own hands, where he put them, meticulously careful never to do anything that could be considered out of the ordinary, perverted, unnecessary. Greg didn't talk about John's feelings, and John kept them hidden. Most of the time he felt very little of anything except exhaustion and the need to be there for Sherlock. Other emotions – loneliness, frustration, despair – things he probably should have felt, were trampled and numbed by sheer force of will. It meant he could care without buckling under the strain. He could prove the sane-sounding madman on the phone wrong, even though the words from the nursery rhyme wouldn't leave his head; in his dreams he saw himself as a man trying to mend a shattered, intricate piece of pottery with glue and sellotape. He didn't let it daunt him. His task may have been damn near impossible, but he wasn't the king's men. He wasn't going to fail. He told himself, told everyone, that he was coping.

* * *

"He alright for me to visit tomorrow?" Greg sounded hoarse – Jon assumed he must have a cold, or else have been kept up most of the night at work, drinking coffee until it seared his throat raw.

John was sitting on the sofa, one hand resting on his leg, which was feeling sore again; it always felt sore when he was tired, when he stopped distracting himself. He glanced toward the bedroom, where he knew Sherlock was asleep. "I think so."

"I don't want to bother him. If things haven't been…good."

John snorted. "'Things' have been shit. But he likes to see you."

"Alright. I'll be there after work, hopefully – we're trying to clear something up, complete hell – if you're sure." A pause. "What do you mean, things have been shit? You sound ready to drop."

John pretended he hadn't heard the last part, in case anyone suggested he wasn't up to the job, but he knew he had to give Greg an answer. "I mean things have been shit. Sherlock's hair's all grown out – you saw him last time, with it in his eyes – and it was a good day, so I told him I was going to cut it. I explained four, five times exactly what I was going to do, and he nodded in that-"  _pathetic, stupid, depressing_  "-way of his."

"It didn't go well?"

John let out a snort that descended into a gargle. "He started screaming, as soon as I got the scissors anywhere near his neck. Curled up, wouldn't let me touch him, wouldn't listen to me." His throat worked painfully, but he pushed the strain out of his voice as best he could. "I'll think he's getting better, that I'm actually getting somewhere, and then something like that'll happen…"

"Still no idea who it was?"

John understood; Greg was changing the topic for his benefit, giving him anger rather than despair to work with. He was grateful.

"No leads. No nothing."

"You haven't tried…asking him? Who it was? He was there for months, he must have some-"

"I tried." John cut him off. "He clammed up. Pressed his lips so tightly together he stopped breathing. Nearly gave me a heart attack." The look Sherlock had given him had been so scared it had been startling. "You're not to ask him, you understand?"

"I wouldn't do that." Greg sounded affronted. "For god's sake John, who do you think I am?"

He hung up before John could give him an exhausted apology.

* * *

The anger crept up on John silently; he had no idea it was there until it broke.

It had been a bad day, or bordering on one. Sherlock had been edgy and inattentive, uncooperative and squirmy and insecure. John had had to say everything twice over to get him to register it through the onset of whatever panic he was feeling, but they'd pushed through it and reached late evening without incident. Sherlock had mostly calmed himself and was crouched over a book – he liked to read whatever John gave him, so long as there were no pictures of sharp objects – staring intently at the pages, cross-legged on the sofa. John had to remind himself that things were different now; that the old Sherlock, who was catty and rude, wasn't coming back. He knew he shouldn't think like that.

Sometimes he couldn't stop himself.

He needed to clear his mind, so he told Sherlock where he was going and took a shower, leaving his mobile on top of the laundry basket and trying to stop worrying about everything from what they had in their cupboards to whether they were going to come under surprise attack. He wasn't entirely successful, but the warm water at least eased his shoulder, which was throbbing uncomfortably, turning his muscles from rocks into reasonably malleable tissues.

When he'd towelled off and slipped on his pyjamas and dressing-gown, he found he had a text, which he opened assuming it was either Greg or Mycroft.

It was neither; it was a video. He recognised the grainy picture with a sickening jolt of the heart, but already the thing was playing, and his eyes were glued to the small screen.

Sherlock was dressed in jeans and a ragged jacket, looking dirty and bruised, secured by one arm to some projecting piece of metal, perhaps a pipe or iron ring. His eyes flashed as soon as the person holding the camera entered the room, growing intent in a way John hadn't seen after It had happened. More than three years. Too long. John's knuckles were turning white; he was gripping the phone so tightly.

Sherlock was his old self, although he looked scared. His hair was limp, eyes penetrating and the rest of his body poised for a strike if the person holding the camera should somehow come into range.

"Who're you?" he spat, jerking at the ties holding him. His voice was metallic over John's speakers, but assertive. Bold. "Let me go, I demand you let me go!" The camera moved forwards again, and Sherlock's eyes flashed with something that could only have been recognition. "You! Let me go you bast-"

That was it. The video ended so suddenly John thought his phone had jammed, but after he'd tried moving it on and just ended up replaying the wretched thing, he was forced to accept the fact. He growled in frustration – it had been cut off just before Sherlock could have given anything away about whoever was holding the camera. A name, a description, anything that could have helped them, all of it gone.

How long had it taken to turn Sherlock from how he'd been in the video to how he was now? John's hands shook and he threw down the phone, sending it onto the clothes in the basket with a soft thump. Bile rose in his throat. He didn't know why this was happening, why he was being hurt in this way, why Sherlock had to hurt, and it made him angry and confused and scared, and he had no-one,  _no-one_ who understood.

It was at that moment Sherlock poked his head around the door, shoulders hunched over and the book clasped to his chest. He was curling and uncurling his toes anxiously, looking at John with big eyes. "Can I sleep?"

Sherlock did that sometimes; ask for permission to do things, especially if the day had been bad. This time, something inside John snapped.

"For fuck's sake!" he snarled, slamming a hand against the wall with a loud thud that reverberated throughout the flat. He couldn't see Sherlock through his rage; couldn't register anything but pain. "I've told you a million times you can, why don't you just listen for once in your life!" He was shouting, voice raised to almost a roar. He wanted to scream 'why did you leave me behind', 'why did you let me think I drove you to jump' 'why didn't you  _trust_ me', but in the end all that came out was "Why can't you go back the way you were before and stop being so damn pathetic!"

It wasn't a question; it was a hope he'd cherished, and now had to abandon, and that was excruciating. His feelings were resurfacing; the _feeling_ feelings, the ones he was forbidden, wouldn't have been forbidden if Sherlock had trusted him, had let him know he was alive, he needed help. All gone. His chest hurt as if someone had driven a hook into his heart.

It took him a couple of seconds to realise that Sherlock was no longer standing up, but curled in the doorway with his hands pressed over his ears, making a high-pitched whine of distress, a continuous, irritating sound. For one second, one dreadful second, John considered kicking him. He pretended he didn't have the thought afterwards, lied to himself about it. Anger born from desperation made his fingers twitch, until he seized a towel and screwed it up in his hands, releasing every drop of fury into it. He pressed his face to the material, shoulders trembling and breathed once, twice, trying desperately to calm down. It smelled of damp and sweat; he didn't know whose.

Eventually he felt able to step forwards. Sherlock flinched, the whine turning into something that was halfway between placating and terrified, and scrabbled backwards into the doorframe, curling up even smaller until he looked like he was trying to vanish completely. John felt guilt shudder through him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, squatting down beside him and putting a hand onto the top of Sherlock's head, gently carding his fingers through the ragged curls, his hyper-awareness flattened by guilt, by the need to apologise. Sherlock jerked away, pushing his head between his legs and hugging his knees tightly.

"Don't," he whined. "Don't, I'm sorry, I won't…" There was a strange gulping sound John realised a couple of seconds later was a sob.

_Has he cried for you yet?_

Sherlock's shoulders were shaking. John, already drained from his sudden outburst, felt as if his heart might shrivel up inside him; he kept thinking it couldn't possibly have been him who'd done this, who'd made Sherlock cry.

"No," he murmured. "No, I'm sorry I shouted, I'm so sorry. Please…" He got no response, so he shuffled forwards and gently wrapped Sherlock in his arms, pulling him close, trying desperately to quell his conscience. "Shh, it's alright, I promise…"

Sherlock lifted his head and blinked up at John; his face was slightly pink, and his eyelashes matted together, long streaks down his cheeks, bottom lip trembling.

"John?"

"Yes," John said softly, brushing Sherlock's hair out of his face and getting tears stuck to his fingertips.

"You're J-John," Sherlock gulped, looking as if he hardly dared to believe what was in front of his eyes. He put out a hand and grasped onto John's sleeve, gripping the material awkwardly and rubbing it between his fingers. Tears were still dripping down his cheeks, hovering on the edge of his chin before pattering onto the floor and John's socks. "I th-thought…for a minute…you were g-going to…" He shook his head, and then rested against John's shoulder with a deep sigh. "Must have been dreaming…"

John couldn't bring himself to tell Sherlock that he hadn't been dreaming at all.


	14. Beer

"It's because you're being a bloody martyr," Greg said, sitting back on the sofa with a sigh and taking a sip of the beer John had dug out of the fridge for him. Sherlock was taking a bath – now his ribs were almost healed he could manage the shampoo and conditioner on his own, although he always made John promise to be nearby before he actually got in the water.

"What do you mean?" John asked softly, crossing one leg over the other and levering the top off his own beer. It was the day after he'd shouted at Sherlock, had let loose the sudden burst of aggression that had shaken them both so severely, and the memory still pricked painfully at his conscience. He'd called Greg and asked him to come round, although it'd taken him whole minutes to pluck up the courage to confess; to admit things weren't going as well as he pretended.

"I mean, you're sticking your own neck out for him. You haven't left the flat in weeks! You quit your job, you quit your friends; you stopped everything for him." John bristled, but Greg pushed on before he could interrupt. "And that's a brave thing to do, and I have absolutely no doubt it's helping him. But you need to think about yourself as well. Cooped up in here with no other company apart from him and my stupid mug is no good for you. You need to get out more – not at his expense, because I know you'd thump me if I suggested that, but perhaps just once a week…"

John snorted. "I can't leave him on his own."

"I'm not saying that. Isn't there someone he trusts enough to be with? If you explain that you're going out and you won't be long?"

An exhausted sigh escaped John's lips. "Perhaps, if it's a good day. Mycroft pops round every once in a while to see him…I mean, Sherlock doesn't exactly talk to him much, but he doesn't mind him being here." He glanced up at Greg. "Or you. But I couldn't ask you to…"

Greg rolled his eyes. "John, you don't have to ask me. I'll do it. Then at least you could see a different face, go to the pub and meet some friends, whatever the hell you want to do. Just every once in a while. It'll make you feel better, I guarantee it."

A smile pulled at the edges of John's mouth. "Thanks," he murmured. "That's…good of you." It did seem like a good idea. Sherlock wasn't as bad as he had been, and the prospect of being able to go out was one John liked. But then his thoughts started spiralling off – what if an ambulance went by, what if the noise bothered Sherlock, what if Greg didn't know what to do? – and the smile slid away. "But I can't."

"John, you are taking a break if I have to lock you out of your flat," Greg said sternly. "If anything happens I can give you a call and knowing you it'll take you about five minutes to get back."

John bit at his lip – five minutes was a long time if Sherlock was really panicking. And what if Sherlock said something Greg found odd – said he'd once kissed John, and John had taken more than ten seconds to push him away? He felt his face drain of colour at the thought. "I don't know…"

"You aren't helping him by not having anywhere to blow off steam." Greg leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, staring at John intently. "You're just going to end up taking it out on him – it already nearly happened once – and you asked me here to help you. Well, that's what I'm doing."

Eventually John nodded, pushing away the trains of thought he knew were just going to make everything worse than it was already. To refuse further would be suspicious; he had nothing to hide, not really, and Greg believed that for now. He'd forgotten John's feelings.

Perhaps he should catch up. Talk to Mike, or Bill…he hadn't seen them in such a long time.

Greg smiled and settled back on the sofa again. "How's he holding up?"

John looked up from the spot of carpet he'd been staring at – it was still dark from the soup that hadn't been cleaned up before it stained.

"No worse," he admitted. "I mean, he's doing more things by himself – getting dressed, saying if he's hungry. If it's a good day. But he's still sleepwalking."

"Really? After this long?"

John nodded. "Pretty much every night. He tried to hold a conversation with the lamp last time. Asking to go home, as always."

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving a pink spot on his cheek. "God. No wonder you look shattered."

John shrugged. "He's not violent or anything – if I just take him back to bed he'll go back to sleep, four times out of five. Sometimes he'll shout a bit, or stamp up and down, and once or twice he's looked like he might take a swing at me, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"And you haven't got anything out of him about what happened, who did this to him?"

Greg didn't have any knowledge of the videos, because John couldn't bear to tell him. He told Mycroft, because Mycroft might be able to help, but Greg didn't need to know.

"The odd thing, little hints. Mostly just the way he behaves tells me what's been done to him. Asking is a dead loss. So as for who it is, no idea. He's covered his tracks."

"I'd like to catch the bastard," Greg ground out suddenly. "I'd see him go to jail for the rest of his miserable life."

"You're not the only one," John muttered, downing the last of his beer before heaving a sigh and slumping back in his seat. "If I ever find him I'll-"

Greg cut him off by suddenly starting in his seat and averting his eyes from something behind John's back. John whipped round to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to the bedroom, stark naked and still with his wet hair plastered to his head.

"Sherlock," John said, firmly but calmly. Inside, his guts were turning to ice. Sherlock forgot sometimes, forgot things like brushing his hair, cleaning his teeth, getting dressed, but what did it look like to Greg? Did it look like anything? "You forgot something."

A frown crossed Sherlock's face and he looked down, not seeming to notice anything amiss. "I…"

John mimicked pulling something over his head; Sherlock's eyes widened, and then he hastily moved back through to the bedroom. John sighed and turned back to face Greg. "Sorry about that." His voice was too high pitched. He coughed, lowered it and rubbed his throat as if it were sore. Covering his tracks. "Every now and then he'll forget things; I think he got used to going without for such a long time that, well…" He shrugged. "It's just sometimes. You were unlucky."

"No, it's…um…fine…" Greg muttered, still looking perturbed. "Just wasn't expecting it."

John forced out a strained chuckle. "I bet you weren't. You should have seen your face."

Greg kicked him. "Shut up." He shook his head, grinned, and John breathed out a sigh of relief. Greg hadn't thought anything was amiss. Which was correct, John reminded himself. He'd done nothing wrong.

Sherlock came back through a couple of minutes later, wearing one of John's jumpers – it was far too short in the arms for him, but sometimes he stole them and there was nothing John could do about it – and a pair of baggy canvas trousers. Very different from the smartly-dressed Sherlock John had known three years ago, but an improvement on the one who'd shown up on his doorstep recently. John had to be grateful for that, if anything.

Sherlock hovered awkwardly for a couple of seconds in the lounge, making a decision whilst Greg and John pretended not to notice he was there, and then came to John and flumped down next to him with a sigh, legs curled half in John's lap and his head resting on his shoulder.

"Oof," John groaned, wincing as his legs protested. "You're getting heavy," he muttered, easing his arms out from where they'd been trapped and putting one of them around Sherlock's back; Greg didn't suspect John still harboured feelings, and it was better for Sherlock's state of mind to give reassurance now rather than ask him to get off and risk distressing him. He would move in his own time, when he'd convinced himself everything was alright.

"I've gone up a stone," Sherlock murmured. "I weighed myself." He sounded oddly proud, although whether because of the weight gain, or because he'd actually got on the scales himself was unclear.

John grinned. "That's great." He glanced at Greg, who was looking at the two of them closely, and felt a cold fist clench somewhere in his abdomen; it made him was to screw his eyes up and wince, but he didn't, breathing deeply, acting natural. "Do you want to say hello to Greg now?" he prompted carefully, swallowing. He wasn't doing anything bad, he was just giving assurance; he hadn't asked Sherlock to come sit on him.

Sherlock made a soft humming sound and wriggled away from John's lap. He ended up standing in the middle of the room again, until Greg leaned forwards with a small smile. John felt a rush of relief; no-one would be taking Sherlock away from him.

"How're you doing, Sherlock?" Greg asked.

Sherlock hummed a second time, twisting his hands together. "Good," he murmured eventually. "John's nice."

John experienced a burst of something warm in his chest, but he wasn't sure whether it was guilt or gladness; whatever it was it left him feeling both happy and slightly nauseous. Mixed emotions, as always. He was getting used to the unsettled state they left him in.

"Well, that's good," Greg said with a chuckle, moving over on the sofa. Sherlock sat on the floor in front of the empty part of it and reached for the book on different breeds of horses John had given to him the other day – it was far too specialised and confusing for John to understand, but Sherlock preferred the complicated ones.

"I brought you something," Greg added, digging into his pocket and putting a paper bag on the floor next to Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock ignored the packet, engrossed in his book, but Greg didn't look offended – both he and John were used to being tuned out. Hell, it was normal – in the past if Sherlock hadn't wanted to listen he'd have blocked everyone out in his usual stroppy manner.

John and Greg talked of this and that; mostly Greg's divorce, which was going more smoothly than he'd expected. John had little to tell, but he was content to listen. They kept their voices low, and John almost forgot Sherlock was there for a few minutes, until there was a rustling sound and he looked down to see him pulling his hand out of the paper bag with a large cookie clasped in his fingers. Peanut – not sold in most of the supermarkets, Greg must have got it from a bakery.

"Heard you liked peanut butter," Greg said with a smile. Sherlock nodded and put some of the cookie in his mouth, then took it out again and looked at John, blinking. John sighed.

"You don't need to ask me first."

Sherlock put the cookie immediately back in his mouth, munching happily as he turned the pages of his book.

Greg checked his watch and got to his feet. "I've got to go," he said. "I've got a morning shift tomorrow; need an early night. Thanks for the beer."

John nodded and heaved himself out of his chair. "Thanks for the biscuit. He might not say so, but he appreciates it."

Greg gave John a small smile. "He appreciates you too, you know. But if he said he appreciated anything he wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes, would he?"

John laughed at that.


	15. Outside

Perhaps John agreed because he hadn't yet had a chance to get out of the flat; Greg had been snowed under with a new case for the past week, so tired during his apologetic phone calls that he could barely string two words together. John could feel restlessness creeping up on him. As of yet, he hadn't done or said anything regrettable, but he wasn't sure how long he could last without a break. Just an hour, he kept telling himself, over and over. All he needed was an hour. The hope of it kept him going, but his jaw was constantly tight, his eyes aching.

Sherlock had been sitting in front of the lounge window most of the morning whilst John busied himself cleaning the bathroom and writing. He did a lot of writing nowadays, mostly notes about Sherlock to send to Mycroft, but also bits and bats of other things, like a private diary (his psychiatrist would have been thrilled) and even a couple of short stories. He wasn't sure what he was doing, writing creatively, but Sherlock had been non-talkative, and well…John liked to write.

The sun was bright for a winter's day, streaming through the window and making Sherlock's face seem even paler than usual.

"I want to go outside."

John almost dropped his laptop; it half-slithered off his knees before he managed to catch it and haul it back. "What?"

Sherlock turned back from the window and looked at John closely. "I want to go outside." Anxiety crept into his voice. "I can, can't I?" His gaze became more intense as he scanned John, once, twice. "Not angry, you're not angry…"

John set his laptop down and shuffled further forward on the sofa. "No, I'm not angry," he reassured. "I'm just a bit surprised."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and he got to his feet and moved over to his chair. John noticed he walked more normally, rather than shuffling, and felt himself smile – Sherlock was off almost all his medication, apart from the vitamins, and he'd eaten two eggs for breakfast.

"It's sunny," Sherlock murmured, glancing back out of the window as he pulled his knees into his chest. He paused, but looked like he wanted to say something else, so John waited patiently. "I want to see Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson still hadn't come round. John didn't think it was because she didn't want to, not at all, but she was getting older, and she'd seen a lot of pain. He still gave her updates about Sherlock, but he had to be careful, glossing over anything really appalling. After Sherlock had 'died' she'd gone through her own hurt, and he hadn't wanted to make that any worse for her. But if Sherlock was feeling himself enough to actually request to go…well, John wasn't going to refuse him.

"I think she'll be glad to see you. Do you want to get a cab there?"

Sherlock shook his head, causing his hair to flop into his eyes. "Prefer to walk. I like the sun."

After a moment's consideration weighing up worst-case scenarios against the fact he wanted Sherlock to make his own decisions, John nodded and got to his feet. "Alright then. We'll walk."

Sherlock went to change into something more suitable than the jumper and boxers he'd been wearing all morning – old jeans, a t-shirt and woolly cardigan John had got him the first time he'd gone shopping. He looked far more informal than John had ever seen him outside before, but happy. Or at least passably happy.

Shoes were more of a problem. Mrs Hudson had all of Sherlock's old things still in the flat, which Mycroft had insisted he continue paying for in the three-year absence – John had only understood a few weeks ago that he'd been expecting Sherlock to move back in – and John hadn't bought any shoes because the thought hadn't entered his head. His own would be at least two sizes two small for Sherlock's feet.

He stood in a conundrum for a couple of minutes whilst Sherlock went and cleaned his face, and then remembered the pair of trainers he'd got for his birthday once, from Harry (six weeks late). She'd obviously been entirely pissed when she'd bought them, because they were three sizes too big and navy blue with a red sole, like little kid's ones. He'd never worn them, but he'd kept them under the bed so he could use them one day to show her exactly how drunk she used to get.

The thought occurred to him that he hadn't seen or spoken to Harry in a very long time. He hadn't thought of her. His lips twitched down in shame, and he was forced to breathe deeply and push the thought away. Later.

The box was dusty, but when he peeled the trainers out of their crumbling tissue paper he smiled; they'd be big enough for Sherlock, probably too big, and hopefully the longish jeans would hide the fact they looked so awful.

If Sherlock thought the shoes were hideous he didn't say so, too busy looking out the window to notice what he was putting on his feet. Mrs Hudson probably had a pair of Sherlock's shoes somewhere they could take for the journey home. He rang her to warn her they were coming, put on a coat, gave Sherlock the warmest jacket he owned and opened the door.

Sherlock hesitated as John stood holding the door, tucking his chin into his chest and surveying the hall outside through his tousled fringe. John pushed the door a little wider and stepped through it himself, keeping it open, inviting Sherlock out if he wanted to come. He wasn't going to push.

Sherlock took a tentative step forwards, bringing his arms up around his chest. John made an encouraging humming noise, until he eventually took another step. Then came another, and then two more, until he'd passed through the doorway and was standing in front of John, hands twisting awkwardly around the buttons of the jacket, twist, let go, twist let go. John shut the door and locked it.

"You're sure about this?"

Sherlock nodded again, looking down at his feet rather than around him, and eventually reached forward and took one of John's hands, holding it tightly. John looked at the way their palms were pressed together and sighed. He'd get hell for this from his conscience tonight, but if it was what Sherlock needed to venture outside, John wouldn't pull away. "If you start to feel uncomfortable, tell me, alright?" he said softly. "It's not a long walk, but we can come back whenever you like."

Sherlock nodded again, gripping John's hand so tightly his nails dug painfully into the skin. They took small steps forwards, little by little edging towards the door. John stepped outside, leading Sherlock after him.

The noise was the first thing he noticed, even before he had time to look around. After being so long in the flat with the windows closed he'd managed to forget just what a sound London made; cars, chattering people, buses and honking horns hit him in the face like a slap. He felt Sherlock grip his hand even more tightly, practically crushing his fingers.

"Are you alright?" John asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise of the traffic. "Do you want to go back?"

Sherlock gave a hum of indecision, then shook his head, stepping so close to John he was practically leaning on top of him and turning his head sideways, away from the road and towards John's hair. "Quickly."  
John nodded and began to walk, keeping up the fastest pace he thought they could manage. Sherlock, still latched to John's hand, started muttering quietly under his breath, a low-throated pulse of sound. "The square root of two-hundred and fifty-six is sixteen, there are two hundred and six bones in the human body, a giraffe can live for two weeks without water…."

John let him talk, ignoring the one or two people who shot puzzled glances in their direction, and then began to talk with him. "The cytoplasm of a cell consists of organelles and cytosol…"

They crossed a road – Sherlock flinched at the beeping the pelican crossing made, but didn't stop – and walked briskly along a row of shops. John could feel Sherlock's anxiety radiating off him, putting him on edge; every time something moved suddenly the hand around his would clench. But he could see it in Sherlock's eyes – he was trying and he'd damn well carry on until he couldn't go a step further.

"Four hundred and sixty times three is one thousand three hundred and eighty…"

John manoeuvred them round a lady with a pushchair, dodged over someone's feet and pressed on. "To find the hypotenuse of a triangle…"

After they'd practically run down three streets, firing facts at each other the whole way, Sherlock seemed to relax a little. He was edgy, and he wouldn't move away from John, but he loosened his grip and his breathing became more even. The stream of facts trailed off.

"You alright?" John said softly, slowing his pace. "We can still go back, if you want."

Sherlock shook his head. "Quickly," he muttered again. "Just quickly."

"You're doing fine," John reassured. A pigeon, spooked by their footsteps, burst out from under a bench and took off. Sherlock jumped, but kept moving. The shops were beginning to become more scattered, giving way to houses and flats. "We'll be there soon, just a few more streets."

Sherlock straightened his back and nodded, keeping one of his fingers crooked around John's thumb. He was beginning to look around, checking where he was; he raised his head to look at the sun and a small, a very small smile, curved his lips. John followed Sherlock's gaze and felt a burst of something that he told himself was mere gladness rather than the kind of affection he shouldn't be having.

They made it to the edge of a second pelican crossing just as people were beginning to weave across the road, and John was bumped by someone amidst the throng of people; his thumb slipped from Sherlock's grasp as he was forced to go forwards or get trampled, and before he knew what was happening he'd been swept to the other side of the road in the crush, blinking dazedly. Sherlock was left trapped on the opposite pavement behind a group of people who'd stopped to allow the cars to pass as the signal turned red.

For a second, John thought it would be alright; he could see Sherlock, although Sherlock would probably find it difficult to see him because John tended to be dwarfed by other people. He was standing still, blinking, confused, but not dissolving. The people around him paid him no attention. Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's side of the road, scanned the people there, and scanned them again. John tried to get a hand up to wave to him, but ended up elbowing someone in the chest. They turned to shoot a glare at him. John frantically stood on tiptoes instead, trying to work his other arm out of the throng, but it was too late.

Sherlock's head was jerking this way and that, too fast, and his eyes were wide and panicked. A bus passed along the road and John's vision was obscured for a few agonising, frantic seconds; by the time it moved on he'd lost track of Sherlock in the crowds.


	16. Shoeboxes

The signal turned green, the picture of a man flicking from standing to walking, and the traffic slowed. John ran across the now-clear road, heart rising up into his throat.

"Sherlock!" he called, elbowing two tourists with backpacks out of the way and provoking a string of abuse in a language he didn't understand. Where the hell was he? He checked the other side of the road, making sure they hadn't missed each other, but could see nothing, no curly hair or ill-fitting jacket. "Sherlock!"

If he'd been tall he could have seen over people's heads easily, found Sherlock quickly, and he cursed his size as he ran, shouting, up and down the square. Time was key. The longer Sherlock was on his own in the bustle and racket the more panicked he'd be. Someone stopped and asked him what was wrong, but when he gave a description – "blue eyes, dark curly hair, thin" – they said they hadn't seen 'a little boy' like that. He didn't have time to explain.

After a minute John was already into full-on panic, throat dry and breathing too rapid; anything could happen here. Sherlock might hurt himself, or someone else; he might end up in the road by mistake. John's ears were primed for the screech of a car as, in desperation, he scrambled up onto a bench, ignoring the odd look cast at him by the man sitting on the other end of it.

"Sherlock!" John called again, but his words were drowned in the rabble. His eyes flicked from location to location, desperately searching out the places Sherlock would likely be – small, 'safe' nooks and crannies, somewhere he could curl up and hide. Left to right, left to right, over and over again he scanned the small square, until he spotted something.

There was a bin close to one of the benches, pushed up against a low, decorative wall, and someone was crouching in front of it; a man with brown hair and something clasped in his hand, something heavy-looking, dark and ugly. John felt his face grow pale – there was only one person who the man could be talking to, only one person who would have wedged themselves into the tiny gap between the bench and dustbin…

John didn't know what the person on the end of the phone looked like. He probably wasn't distinguished – criminals never were; they got caught too quickly if people noticed them. Moriarty had shown him that. The dark object flashed in the sunlight, making him blink, but he was already off the bench and making for them. It was unmistakably Sherlock the man was talking to; he was sitting with his back against the bin, facing the low bench, jammed into the tiny space with his hands over his ears, trembling. The man was leaning forwards, leering John thought. Waiting for a chance to strike.

John wasn't going to let anyone touch Sherlock. Not again.

"Hey!" he shouted, getting attention, praying he wouldn't end up shot. Surely not in front of so many people; the man would never get away without being caught. "Hey, you!"

The man turned, and in that second the object in his hand was brought out of the blinding winter sun, and John could see it was a mobile, touch screen, large. The man's face, now it was exposed, seemed concerned, and he blinked at John.

"Me?" he asked. His tone was soft, southern, and slightly posh. John was brought up short, breathing heavily, suddenly disarmed. "Do I know you?"

"I…no." John felt himself flushing. In his panic he'd become carried away, had allowed every shadow to become a threat. "No, he's my friend…" He was reminded with an unpleasant jolt of the time he'd last said that. There had been a pavement then, only it had been stained red. "He's my friend."

"Oh." The man took a step back, twiddling his phone in his hands. "I was just going to ask if he needed me to call anyone…he seemed a bit…a bit…"

"I know," John murmured. "Thank you. But I can manage."

"You sure?"

John nodded as firmly as he could manage, and squeezed himself into the gap next to a bin before he got a reply, hoping the man would go. He didn't feel right exposing his back, but he had to trust the people around to watch it for him.

"Sherlock?"

If he heard, Sherlock didn't seem to register who was speaking to him. His hands were pressed against his ears so forcefully his nails were leaving red crescent moons in the flesh, eyes squeezed so tightly shut his teeth and jaw were forced into a set, gritted position.

"Alright," John murmured, looking around frantically for somewhere he could take Sherlock to calm down – the flat would be too far, and Mrs Hudson was still at least four streets away. The man he'd been talking to a second ago had vanished, and John was already forgetting him, getting rid of the memory so he could deal with the current situation. One thing at a time. "Alright, let's get you stood up…"

Sherlock was coiled like a spring, but eventually John levered him upright, practically dragging him off the floor. Sherlock's knees remained in the cramped, awkward position they'd been in sitting down, and John had to pull on his shoulders just to get him to straighten. Sherlock shook his head and began to mutter to himself as John forced an arm around his back and pulled his head round so Sherlock was shielded from the noise and movement should he open his eyes or remove his hands from his ears. Both actions seemed unlikely.

"Stop," Sherlock murmured, low and desperate. "Stop, make it stop…"

"I will do," John promised, practically dragging Sherlock towards the nearest shop; a shoe shop if the stacks of boots in the window were any indication. It looked quiet, not too many customers. He knew he was treating Sherlock too roughly, heaving at his waist and shoulder, almost lifting him off the ground every other step, but he wouldn't move his damn legs properly, and he couldn't stay out here. If he collapsed and went completely into a shutdown John would never, ever forgive himself. "I promise I'll make it stop…"

Sherlock's breathing was fast and ragged, gulps forcing his way past his throat and hitting John's neck as they moved, tickling and warming. "Stop," he moaned. "No more, I promise I'll do anything, make the noise stop."

John was sweating, seeing everything in blurs; Sherlock's panic was catching. The people around them were staring; someone said to their daughter "don't gawk sweetheart, it's not his fault". Their progress was slow, far too slow. A car beeped at a kid running across the road ahead of his mother. Sherlock gave a low moan, whipping his head sideways and catching John smartly on the jaw with the top of it.

"Stop, stop, stop!" If Sherlock had had enough breath left for his voice to come out as more than a harsh croak, John was convinced he would have been shouting. As it was, it sounded like a stage whisper, someone with a bad cold. That only made it worse; the resignation, the gasping.

John took the last couple of steps to the shop almost at a run, dodged through the open door and kicked the wedge out from underneath it so it slid into place with a click. The noise died immediately. The couple of customers in the tiny shop turned to shoot odd looks in their direction and the young helper behind the counter started forwards, frowning, pushing her blonde hair out of her face.

"Please," John panted, dragging Sherlock to the till and upsetting a small stack of boxes, which dropped shoes all over the floor – damn shoes, shoes had been a problem all day. "Please, can I take him through to the back?"

The young woman – her nametag said Jessica – opened her mouth, looking entirely bewildered. "I…"

"Please," John said again. His chest was heaving almost as much as Sherlock's was. "Just to calm down, he just needs to be somewhere quiet…"

She dithered for a couple of seconds, then nodded and opened the door behind the counter. John staggered through it, barely registering the stacks and stacks of shoeboxes that lined the shelves, found a stool and eased Sherlock onto it with his back against the wall. As soon as he was sat down Sherlock resumed his hunched position, legs pulled up and his face buried in them, not moving his hands from their place over his ears. He was hyperventilating, cheeks bright red.

"Come on Sherlock," John murmured, putting a hand over Sherlock's and prising his fingers away one by one. "Listen to me, it's John, you know me…" One of Sherlock's hands dropped limply to his side, and he gave a shudder. His breathing slowed, and then stopped with a sharp gasp of indrawn air. His cheeks went even darker, colour spreading slowly outward, like blood pooling on marble.

John didn't allow himself to think about blood for long. Desperately he wrenched the other hand away and gripped Sherlock's face between his palms, lifting up and stroking his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones. "Open your eyes."

Sherlock gave a squeaky whine and tried to shake his head, but John's hands restricted him.

"Should I call an ambulance?" said Jessica, whom John had forgotten entirely. He wondered how this must look to her; like some kind of allergic reaction, perhaps.

"No," John murmured. "No, just keep quiet." He didn't mean to sound rude – he just needed less noise. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and continued to run his thumbs over his cheeks. "Open your eyes Sherlock."

Eventually, Sherlock did; he let out the air he'd been holding in with a sharp rush and John felt the flicker of lashes against his eyebrows, like someone tickling him with a feather made of sherbet and air; fragile. He pulled back and looked Sherlock straight in the face, not removing his hands.

"Are you with me?"

Sherlock didn't look away from John's eyes, lower lip trembling; his breathing was still uneven, but at least it was there. "I don't…I d-d-don't…"

"You're in a shop," John said quietly, bringing down one hand and linking it to Sherlock's, the way they had been before they'd been separated. "It's nice and quiet, and no-one's going to hurt you, I promise."

Sherlock blew out another breath, shoulders slumping, and let his legs drop before pushing his head into the crook of John's neck and bringing his arms up to latch tightly around his back; John fought back a wince as the nails dug into his skin, sharp as needles. "I thought…you were g-gone, I thought you were…you were…"

"You're fine," John said firmly, rubbing circles on Sherlock's back with his spare hand. "I'm absolutely fine, we're both fine."

"I was alone again, I didn't…didn't know what to do…"

"Shh," John murmured. "It's alright now, I didn't mean to get separated…just a mistake…"

"Mm." Sherlock's arms slipped from John's back so they were hanging, hands still clasped together, dropped limply around John's waist. His breathing was slowing, becoming heavier; John supposed he was tired. That amount of terror must be an exhausting thing to maintain.

Jessica was looking at them uncertainly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Um…excuse me…"

John turned his head to one side to look at her, causing Sherlock's hair to scrape along his neck, tickling. Sherlock mumbled something and shifted to put his nose back against John's Adam's apple. "Yes?"

"Is he…I mean, just…are you sure you don't need an ambulance?"

"No, no ambulance," John said firmly. "I'll get someone to pick us up."

"Oh. Right."

A second door clicked somewhere amongst the shelves and an older woman with dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose slalomed towards them through the shoeboxes and display stands, a paper cup in each hand. "I got us coffee," she called, not loudly enough to make Sherlock do anything but wince. "Yours is-who's this?"

Jessica smoothed her skirt edgily. "This is…" She glanced at John for guidance.

"John," John murmured. He brought a hand up to the back of Sherlock's head and gently stroked his hand through his hair. "This is Sherlock."

Jessica nodded. "Sherlock wasn't…" She paused. "He wasn't feeling well and I said they could come into the back to settle down."

"Oh dear," the woman said sympathetically, putting the coffees down and adjusting her glasses. "Do you need us to call anyone?"

John shook his head. "Just give us a few minutes; we'll be out of your hair as soon as possible, I promise."

The older woman ushered Jessica back through into the shop, where John got the feeling there would be a long line of mildly curious customers waiting to have their feet measured. "It's no trouble dear," she said, giving him a smile – she reminded him of Mrs Hudson, or Molly. Too kind for her own good. "We all have bad days."

John snorted softly. "You can say that again."

The older lady – her nametag was hidden behind her cardigan, John could only see a 'K' that could have stood for anything – went over to a stack of shoeboxes and began to sort quietly through them. Sherlock shifted against John and mumbled something.

"What was that?" John asked softly.

Sherlock sighed and lifted his head up; his eyelids were already drooping. "I want to go home."

"You're not the only one," John murmured, reaching up and pushing some of Sherlock's hair out of his face. "Do you want to get a cab, or shall we ask Mycroft?"

"Mycroft." The reply was instantaneous; John could tell Sherlock had just had enough. He nodded and fished out his phone, firing off a text to say where they were and that they needed picking up. He'd barely had time to adjust his cramped legs before his phone buzzed with a reply.

Ten minutes. –MH

John wondered if he was going to be in trouble, and how worried Mycroft was. His general air was dejected as he put the phone away, but before he could reflect too long on whether this was all his fault, if he was an idiot, and if so how much of one, Sherlock had slid off the stool and curled himself up in John's lap, arms wrapped around his neck.

"M'sorry."

"Not your fault," John said firmly, moving one arm down to hook under Sherlock's knees and stop him from sliding off his legs and onto the floor. His heart rate was only just beginning to slow, and his conscience was buried under echoes of panic. He felt as if he'd been put through a mangle. "It's mine. I should have been more careful, not have let us get separated."

Sherlock shook his head. "Should have waited for you."

John sighed. "Maybe we tried too much too soon – next time, we'll just drive to Mrs Hudson's." He'd have to call and tell her they weren't coming. He wondered if he should invent a reason as to why.

"I wanted to see the sun," Sherlock mumbled.

John didn't have the heart to question him.


	17. Change

Mycroft, as it turned out, had been worried. Very worried. This, for him, had constituted of a look that could have been mistaken for indigestion and the twisting of his hands around his umbrella. Sherlock, as soon as he'd made it to the car, had latched onto John and fallen asleep. Mycroft had looked at the two of them, sighed, and not demanded an explanation. John had wondered what it was like for him to have a sibling who preferred to cling to his flatmate-come-friend rather than his own brother. He'd refused to feel guilty about the fact.

Sherlock had slept for the next ten hours or so, curled up amongst the pile of blankets and assorted items of clothing that made up his bed. John had spent the time ringing Mrs Hudson and apologising, writing up notes and cooking about four different types of soup because he'd felt like he had nothing better to do.

The next day Sherlock was crotchety and irritable, slipping up every now and then and asking John's permission to do things like eat. If John hadn't run the bath for him he wouldn't have washed, and then he fell asleep in the water and almost gave John a heart attack when he walked in an hour later to find his chin slipping further under the surface. He hadn't spoken much, except to ask who the 'strange man' had been. John, assuming he was talking about the brown-haired stranger who'd gone up to him in the street, had shrugged and told him he didn't know. And then, pushing his luck, he'd asked Sherlock if he'd recognised him. Sherlock had said no, and John had dared risk asking the question – did he look like the man who he'd 'been with' before he came home.

Sherlock had clammed up faster than a Venus fly trap snapping closed, put his head in his hands and not moved for hours, no matter how many times John coaxed him and said he was sorry.

The life John had managed to shape to some façade of normality became shaky and uncertain for two or three days, and for a few terrible hours he sat and stewed, thinking over and over how he might have managed to set the whole thing back permanently, until he felt like banging his head against the wall in frustration.

He was at his lowest point when Sherlock entered the room, turned on the CD player, rested his head on John's shoulder and simply sat next to him. At the time John wasn't sure who was comforting who, but things got better after that. Not perfect. But better.

Their visit to Mrs Hudson was delayed by a week. They drove this time, despite Sherlock mentioning once or twice he wanted to walk. John, rather than forbidding it, pretended he hadn't heard, and it rained anyway. Sherlock lost his enthusiasm for the outside as soon as the sun went in.

Standing on the doorstep to 221 brought John back sharply to the fact he hadn't been round since Sherlock had turned up so unexpectedly. He felt a little ashamed; Mrs Hudson had been good to him. He probably hadn't thought of her as often as he should have.

Sherlock, rain pattering off his oversized jacket, was sticking close to John, fingers linked together. John had made sure nothing separated them this time, not pushing past anyone or letting them get lost in large crowds. Not that there had been large crowds in the five paces from the car he'd got Mycroft to send round and the front step.

When Mrs Hudson opened the door and saw them her face lit up, and John forgot the fact he'd neglected his duty to her, too busy getting Sherlock and himself into 221A. There was a pot of tea ready for them, and homemade biscuits, which Sherlock went straight for without asking – John, in reverse of his usual attitudes, was pleased by his lack of politeness – whilst Mrs Hudson poured three cups and sat down at the table. Sherlock sat on the floor with a biscuit in one hand and the book he'd brought from the flat in the other.

John chatted to Mrs Hudson for a little, trying to be as cheerful as possible, and she responded warmly, but when she tried to engage Sherlock in conversation he didn't seem to hear.

"Sherlock," John said softly, tugging the book gently out of Sherlock's hands and setting it to one side, ignoring the whine of protest he got in response. "Aren't you going to talk to Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock looked to John, then up at the table, hesitating. Mrs Hudson gave him a small smile.

"It's nice to see you again."

Sherlock broke into a half-smile, and got to his feet. He edged around the table, reached out and briefly hugged her. Mrs Hudson started, but took it in her stride, reaching up to pat his arm.

"Nice to know you haven't forgotten me," she murmured, and although John knew she was joking, he found the words hurt, too close to the truth.

"Never," Sherlock said, putting his head on top of hers and closing his eyes. "England would fall."

John choked on his tea. Mrs Hudson drew in a shaky breath and blinked a few times, but composed herself remarkably well. Sherlock pulled away and, instead of sitting on the floor, settled himself on the chair between her and John and took another biscuit. He dropped in on the conversation every now and then, muttering the odd word, but mostly made his way steadily through the plate and two cups of tea. John and Mrs Hudson talked about nothing in particular, but it was companionable. Comforting.

When they left after three hours, Sherlock had a whole tin of biscuits under his arm, and John felt more relaxed than he had done since the disaster with the shoe shop.

Soon after getting home, he realised he had another text, another compressed video sitting like a tiny bomb on his received messages. He pressed delete without opening it.

* * *

 John went out by himself for the first time in roughly two months. Greg came round to look after Sherlock, armed with more peanut butter cookies, a chessboard and pieces, three books and an emergency phone number. Everything was explained to Sherlock; that John was safe, that there was no reason to worry, that he wouldn't be gone long and, most importantly, that no-one was going to be alone.

John worried most of the time he was out, but it didn't ruin the experience entirely – he, Bill and some other mates talked about their lives and nonsense at the nearest pub. John had only one beer, and when people asked him why just said he was trying to 'cut down'. He could hardly tell them that getting drunk wasn't an option because he needed to look after a man returned from the dead.

Bill was engaged. Liam had changed jobs and was now working in marketing. Paul's girlfriend was pregnant. They went over baby names sitting at the table, laughed at Liam's ridiculous stories about his boss and agreed to keep an eye out for the wedding invitations.

Then the inevitable questions came.

"Where've you been John? Haven't seen you since…well…"

"Everything going alright?"

"You been getting out lately?"

John handled it all fairly well – he'd known the questions were coming, and he'd prepared himself. He wasn't telling anyone about Sherlock; he certainly didn't want the media hype. Even Harry didn't know, because he so rarely saw her and he knew he couldn't trust her to keep her mouth shut, even when she was sober.

"Things have been fine," he said, smiling a little as he remembered Sherlock hugging Mrs Hudson and eating his way through the biscuits. "I felt a bit under the weather for the past few weeks, but apart from that, it's alright."

They all seemed visibly relieved, but he wasn't sure whether that was because they were glad he was feeling well, or that they were grateful to avoid an awkward conversation.

"Nothing new?" Bill elbowed him a little and grinned. "You know what I mean. What about that Sarah you were dating, got back together?"

John shook his head and chuckled – god, he hadn't thought about Sarah or anyone else in that way in a long while. He hadn't had time. It had been filled with other thoughts, like 'will tomorrow be a bad day' or 'have I locked the door because I don't want Sherlock walking into the street in his pyjamas'.

Liam took another swig of his beer – he'd had a little more than everyone else, and was beginning to slur on the longer words. "I always thought you and that detective bloke…you know…"

John stiffened at the words 'detective' and 'bloke' – that wasn't how people addressed Sherlock, how dare they forget his name, how dare they forget him, and oh god, what if they worked out he was back? Before he could stutter something in reply Bill had kicked Liam under the table, causing a mutter of protest. The atmosphere immediately became uncomfortable, sticky, as a long silence stretched out, leaving John time to consider and choose an answer that wouldn't give anything away. Paul suddenly became very interested in the salt and pepper pots in front of him.

"There wasn't anything between us." He had to force his tongue to bend to his will to stop himself saying 'isn't'.

Liam fiddled with his beer glass; John watched the moisture that had been gathering slide off underneath his fingertips. "The way you and him carried on…I know it's none of my business, but I always thought you had a thing. Doesn't bother me whether you did or not, but, well…he's gone now. That was hard for you."

John went very red, very quickly. "Yeah. Well, it was, but…I'm working on it."

Bill smiled and clapped John on the shoulder. "That's great. I'm glad."

Paul changed the topic, and they didn't come back to Sherlock again. John drank the dregs of his beer, feeling tired and already wanting to go back and check on Sherlock. He understood what was happening – he was becoming used to the confines of the flat, adapting to his environment. Greg was right; if he didn't get out more often he'd end up becoming a recluse.

The worst part was, the thought wasn't entirely unappealing. The flat was safe; he could block out awkward questions. Questions about what he might have felt about Sherlock before, and what he felt now. As if he'd ever been able to work that out.

He left early under the pretence of a headache and returned to his flat, walking briskly and reflecting quietly along the way. Distance allowed him to rose-tint the session only a few minutes after it had finished. Perhaps it hadn't been too bad after all; he'd expected some awkward questions, and he'd enjoyed listening to the others talk. He should try and go out again sometime, with a different group. Listening to them would be good for him.

When he let himself in the warm air of the flat greeted him like a soft handshake, washing over his chilled cheeks and lips. Greg looked up from where he was sitting opposite Sherlock. They had the chess board laid out and were nearly through what looked like it had been a long match; pieces were thin on the board, especially on Greg's side. The bag of peanut butter cookies was empty, and Sherlock's shoulders were relaxed as he turned his head towards John and smiled before moving his queen a few squares to the left. Greg examined the board, rolled his eyes, and surrendered his king.

"You beat me again, you cheeky bugger," he muttered good-naturedly. "I tell you John; don't bet anything you want to keep on a game of chess with him."

John chuckled, tucking the information away for later and heading for the kitchen. "You want a cup of tea, either of you?"

"Yes please!" Greg called. A couple of seconds later, as John glanced back, he saw Sherlock nod. He made tea quickly and took it back through to the lounge, settling himself on a spare armchair whilst Greg packed away the chess pieces and Sherlock lifted himself onto the sofa with one of the books in his hand.

"Everything been alright?" John asked, addressing both of them simultaneously. Greg nodded, and Sherlock made a hum of assent.

"I like chess."

Greg snorted. "You wouldn't have liked it if you'd been losing."

Sherlock opened the book and looked down at it, wiggling his toes in his socks; a smirk curved the corners of his lips, but he said nothing.

"How was your evening?" Greg asked, picking up his tea and looking at John closely, watching for his reactions; John wondered if he'd ever done the same thing to see if the criminals he was interrogating were lying or not.

"Alright," he admitted, easing off his shoes and pushing them to the side of the chair. "I mean, sometimes it was a pain. I had to lie about where I'd been…about Sherlock."

Greg didn't tell him he'd done wrong to omit the truth, and for a second John nearly told him what Liam and Bill had said about him and Sherlock, but then decided against it. No point in dredging it up again. It was safer to change the topic.

"How's the job going, Greg?"

Greg inclined his head. "Well, I'm not exactly in the loop as much as I used to be but…" He leaned forwards, casting a worried glance in Sherlock's direction and lowering his voice. "There have been some very nasty killings going on. Young people, always found in pairs, one male, one female, naked. Throats slit."

John shuddered. Even taking into account his previous occupations, there was something about it that chilled him. "No idea who's done it?"

"None. It's obviously the same killer – we've got a running theme this time. The woman's always found with an apple in her hand, the man with pages from the bible. Genesis."

John raised an eyebrow. "Adam and Eve?"

"They think so," Greg replied. "Some sort of religious fanatic, or even the opposite; someone against religion. It's hard to tell with these cases, and we've got no other clues."

"Too obvious," Sherlock muttered.

John whipped his head round to look at him, frowning. "What?"

Sherlock lifted his head from the book, looking both anxious and determined. "The clues are too obvious." When he was greeted with silence he blinked a couple of times and set the book aside, crossing his legs underneath his body and tugging at his sleeves. "If he – the chances are higher of it being a he because…" He took a deep breath, and John saw him touch his fingertips to the area of his neck with the long scar on it. "Because of the physical force needed to cut someone's throat. The book pages are too much. If it was real, it'd just be the apple. Subtle. Neat. It's too glaring as it is. Probably someone with a personal vendetta against a lot of people who wants to cover it up."

Greg's mouth was hanging open. John stared at Sherlock, a smile curving his lips; he felt warm and amazed, because Sherlock had just done what he hadn't done in weeks; he'd made a deduction. It was like a part of him that had been missing had suddenly dropped back in for tea. "Fantastic!" he burst out. Sherlock jumped and looked towards John, satisfying himself everyone was safe, and then grinned.

Greg got to his feet. "Sherlock, how would you like it if I brought you the case files? No pictures if you don't want, just written information," he added.

Sherlock considered, biting at his lip and looking between Greg and John uncertainly, twisting his hands around his sleeves again. John smiled. "It's up to you Sherlock," he said. "If you want to do it, go ahead. If you don't, it doesn't matter."

Eventually, Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he said, the old determinism and attitude bleeding through in his tone. "And bring me pictures."

John looked at him, desperately wanting to ask him if he was sure about that – there would be blood, and he didn't know what reaction it would produce. But he knew that if he stepped in now, stopped Sherlock making his own decisions, it would undermine everything; he had no choice but to let it unfold. Greg glanced in John's direction, and when he didn't indicate anything was wrong, he smiled.

"Thank you," he said, picking up the things he'd come with. "I'll drop the file round after work tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded and went back to his book. John heaved himself out of his chair and followed Greg to the door. "Are you sure you're allowed to do this?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Of course I'm not allowed; I got demoted for consulting Sherlock last time."

"Then don't do it." It was hard for him to say, but he did anyway. "Don't put your job on the line for him again."

Greg only chuckled. "If I told you to stop looking after him, would you?"

"Well…no, but that's…"

"Almost exactly the same," Greg replied. "I think this will be good for him, and if it's not, then I'll take the case back and never mention them to him again. Besides, we've got six dead people and no leads; if he can help, it might just save someone's life."


	18. Ziptie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Things start to get nasty. Violence/peril. Torture.

In retrospect, John should have been more careful. More alert, aware of what was going on around him. But he'd been tired from his night out, flushed from Sherlock's successful deduction, and it was heading for midnight when the knock came at the door.

He assumed it was something urgent. He wondered if Greg had left something behind he desperately needed for the morning, or if Mycroft had discovered something about their kidnapper. He didn't stop to think as he turned the handle; Sherlock was in the bath, and he didn't expect it to be anyone he didn't know.

When he pulled open the door he jumped and drew back, raising his arms in defence automatically. The person on the doormat was dirty, face and hands smeared with blood, breathing heavily as they leaned against the doorframe.

"Please…" He spoke with an American accent, obvious immediately. Tourist? "Please, let me in, I've just been…someone's just tried to kill me!"

John's mind immediately jumped to Greg's case, and he wasn't one to refuse help if he could give it. He stepped aside to let him in. "What's your name?" he asked, helping the exhausted man to the sofa. "What happened?"

The man sat with his head in his hands for a couple of seconds, panting, until he finally seemed to gather himself enough to be able to speak. There was blood in his sandy hair, not to mention dirt, layers of the stuff. It made him look grey. "I…I was only out for a walk, I thought…god I don't know, this man came at me with a knife. It was crazy! We got into a scuffle and then I just ran to the first building I could."

"It's fine," John murmured. "You're going to be fine, I promise; I'm a doctor, I can check over your wounds, and then I'll call the police."

The man nodded gratefully. John went to the bathroom to fetch his first aid kit and talk to Sherlock, who was standing in just his boxers, towelling his hair. He looked up and smiled at John as he came in, then spotted the smears of blood that had rubbed off on his sleeves from the man's torn shirt, and bit his lip.

John shook his head. "It's not mine, don't worry. Sherlock, there's a man in the lounge who's been injured; he's asking for our help. Someone's tried to kill him."

Sherlock drew back a pace. "Who?"

"I don't know. It's alright, he's not going to hurt you, but you don't have to come into the lounge if you don't want to. I'm going to make sure he's not too badly injured, and then I'm going to call the police."

Sherlock nodded. John, assuming he would stay in the bathroom and bedroom, gathered up his kit, feeling the hard plastic under his fingers like an old friend – it reminded him of the time when he was fourteen and Harry had come to him with a long cut over her upper arm, made with broken glass from a bottle at a party, and asked – demanded – for him to fix it. That part never had made sense; he was younger than her.

The man was standing up when John came back through. "Sit," he said, snapping open the plastic clasps and searching for bandages. "I'll have you patched up in no time."

"Thanks," he man muttered. His teeth were chattering. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

"It's no problem," John replied, digging out his antiseptic from the bottom of the box. "What was your name again?"

Before the man could speak there was a sound behind them, and John turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway with his towel wrapped around him. His eyes were wide, chest rising and falling far too quickly; his mouth was open.

Worry sliced through John like a knife. "Sherlock?" he murmured, stepping forwards, turning his back completely and forgetting about the man; the need to help Sherlock was overwhelming, had always been overwhelming, from the second he'd shot a cabbie through a window to save someone he'd only just met. "Sherlock, what's-"

There was a second in which he heard it behind him, a sort of 'thwush' noise that made his ears ring, and then something slammed into the back of his head with a force that jerked him forwards, pain building in front of his eyes like a white curtain that slowly turned black and slid silently across his vision.

* * *

At first John thought he was ill and feverish; his head was pounding and his eyes felt as if someone had sellotaped them closed. He resisted the urge to groan at the dull throb that spread from his head to his neck and bad shoulder, making every inch of muscle and skin sore. Never let anyone know you're awake. Wait, assess the situation, and then decide.

He was secured by one arm to something, his back resting against what could only be a wall. The fact it was only one arm bothered him – it reminded him of something, torn jacket, shouting…

Sherlock.

He wanted to open his eyes, scream his name, but he restrained himself. Sherlock had been tied by one arm in the video he'd been sent; John was now tied by one arm. The position was too unusual to be a coincidence.

He opened one eye a crack, allowing colour to bleed through the lid and give him a small slice of the room to look at without revealing he was awake. The light was still artificial – no sun, he couldn't have been out much more than a couple of hours – and he could see someone at the opposite end of the room, slumped awkwardly against the other wall. The same wall, faded blue with a white skirting board. They were still at the flat. He knew it was Sherlock straight away from the boxers and the hair. Both his arms were tied above his head this time, to the pipe that ran across the wall. His chest was rising and falling evenly; he looked asleep.

John didn't dare turn his head, but he could feel the presence of someone else like a bad smell – it took him a couple of seconds to work out it actually was a smell. Cigarette smoke, to the left. A rustle of clothing, a long breath, and then a grinding sound. Someone had just put out their cigarette on the nearest surface. Too late, John realised what that meant and let his eye slip closed again.

"Don't play shy," someone called, and he realised that although the American accent had trickled away like water off a smooth pebble, it was the man from before; the man who he'd let into his house without question, the man whose face, he now realised, had been covered in blood, but had had no obvious injuries. "Your breathing indicates you've been awake for at least the past two minutes."

John opened his eyes, blinking away the fuzziness that came with a mild concussion, and turned his head. "You're the man from the phone." The one who sounded sane. English. Grating.

"Very good." There was a movement in the corner field of his vision, and then the man stepped forwards so he could see. John raised his head defiantly, catching a glimpse of the ties – zipties, larger and stronger than the ones he usually kept in the cupboards for household purposes. "I don't need to tell you not to shout for help – the changing of the guards isn't for another ten hours or so, and if the neighbours come to inquire, I swear I'll shoot them without a second's thought."

"You killed Mycroft's men."

"And used their blood – it was all very neat."

John spat disgustedly, trying to get the taste of unconsciousness out of his mouth – it tasted like bile and an embodiment of the sickly smell of sewage. The cigarette smoke made his nose curl, but when he looked up to the fire alarm, he saw it had been switched off.

"Why?"

"Questioning a guest. You're not a good host, are you?" The man turned something over in his hands, a gun, not John's; it was bigger and heavier, probably the thing that had smacked down on his head. Immediately his eyes were drawn to it – weapon focus, tugging his attention away from the man's face. Perhaps it was deliberate. "My name's Sebastian."

"Sherlock was trying to kill you," John said, twisting his wrist experimentally against the tie. Even if he made it bleed, made it slippery, he doubted he'd be able to get free; his hands weren't small, even for his short stature. And besides, he'd probably end up shot before he could hope to slip out. "That's what they said, that he was going after Moriarty's organisation."

Sebastian shrugged, turning the gun over again and sitting on a table, knocking a lampshade askew. "Yes, he tried to kill me, but he was too slow; I happened to be awake. Bad luck for him, very good luck for me. I was going to kill him, but I couldn't do it." He paused, and although he didn't smile, there was a flash in his eyes that made John shudder. "It seems there's something of an experimenter in me; I wanted to know how far I could push one of the most intelligent men in the world." He tapped his foot against the floor a couple of times. "I still don't have my answer, of course."

John curled his lip. "You're disgusting."

Sebastian looked up, and for a second John thought he saw something that could have been loneliness pass through his face. It was fleeting, a dulled reflection in steel, and John held out no hope it would save them, but it was there. "Like I said before – calling me names doesn't hurt me."

He stood up so sharply that John almost let himself cringe, expecting some form of attack, but the gun was left on the table. He let out a shaky breath, very glad he wasn't getting shot. Yet.

"We should get started before dawn," Sebastian murmured, glancing out of the window. John, still twisting frantically but uselessly at the toughened plastic band around his wrist, followed Sebastian with his eyes, looking for something that might help them. He had to give Sebastian credit – he was clever. The gun was well out of reach, and so was anything else that could have been used as a weapon; lamps, pens, even the TV remote, it was all too far away for him to have a hope of getting to it.

Only the knowledge that he couldn't go anywhere stopped him shying away when Sebastian produced a bottle he recognised, white plastic, tacky and cheap. John used it to clean the bathroom with, recognised it from hours spent scrubbing with his nose wrinkled against the smell of bleach. Sebastian clicked the cap off poured a measure into a delicate wine glass John always kept on the top shelf, which Sebastian must have chosen and set out whilst he was unconscious. This was planned, every inch of it.

The stuff in the bottle was thick and viscous, artificially yellow and slimy-looking. John stared at Sebastian in disbelief as the glass was offered to him, fumes hitting his nose and immediately making his eyes sting and his head spin.

"There is no way I am drinking that," he croaked, turning his head to one side. He wondered if he could do any damage with his spare arm and flexed his fingers experimentally, but then a foot clamped down and pinned them to the carpet. He snapped his head back round, trying to wrench free, but all he accomplished was clicking his elbow. Pain licked along the bones in his fingers as his nose was pinched tightly, nails digging into the skin, and the glass forced to his lips. He couldn't breathe without choking some of it in. It burned his tongue and throat, sliding down like crushed razor blades, bubbling around his mouth as he tried frantically to spit and breathe at the same time, kicking helplessly, screaming silently.

When about half of the glass had been forced down him Sebastian pulled away, leaving him coughing and retching on the floor. John felt as if someone had their hands around his throat, squeezing brutally, and his insides were already beginning to cramp, asking him what the hell he was playing at.

He wanted to throw up. He could feel the toxic substance rising, but he knew he couldn't vomit – it would cause more damage to his oesophagus than the first trip had. What he needed was a glass of water or milk, followed by an ambulance, but he knew he wasn't going to get one, even if he begged. He was going to die, because that was what Sebastian wanted. He didn't know why it was wanted – he could have been shot the second he opened the door, or even before then, a well-timed bullet through a window. Desperate to pull his attention away from his insides, he opened his mouth to ask a question, something, anything that might cause a distraction, buy them time, but his stomach cramped again, forcing him to jolt and groan, gritting his teeth. The question was pushed back down his burning throat.

Before he could gather himself Sebastian had put the wine glass on the nearest table and turned to Sherlock, who was still slumped against the wall with his head lolling on his chest. John suppressed a blazing cough, watering eyes fixed on the two of them as he forced his breathing to be even, normal, calm. He couldn't panic.

"Useful pills of yours; the blue ones. But it's time to wake him up, I think," Sebastian whispered, seizing a nearby box of matches and striking one. "This is what I want him to see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel guilty about putting this up - both thank you and sorry to everyone who said they liked Sherlock's improvement. But Sebastian always had to show up sometime. Because he's a douchebag.


	19. Bleach

"Wait!" John snarled, choking the word out from between his burning lips like a bad taste. He tugged at the tie, making a noise, demanding to be noticed. He had to draw attention away from Sherlock, on his own head if need be; Sherlock couldn't be allowed to see this, couldn't be allowed to see Sebastian. John still held out hope of rescue, that he could convince Sherlock the whole thing had been a nightmare. Asleep, no harm could come to him. He just needed time. He was praying for it.

Sebastian paused, turning to eye John quizzically, and then cursed as the match burned his fingertips. He dropped it with a snarl that pulled his lips up over his teeth, like an animal in pain.

"Why?" John asked, blurting out the first thing that came in to his head.  _Genius needs an audience,_ Sherlock had said once, a long time ago, too long, and Sebastian may not be a genius, but he certainly thought he was. Sweat beaded John's upper lip as his stomach gave another lurch. Time. Attention away from Sherlock. Focus.

"Why what? Why did I come back? I should have thought that was obvious; your government friends were getting close." The box of matches went down, although Sebastian didn't move away from Sherlock, making the proximity a threat – he could still hurt him when he wanted, and John wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop it. "They'd stopped looking at people who were alive and dug up records. Things that…well, should have been left alone." He shrugged. "I've been a dead man these past six years, but it doesn't mean you can't track me, not nowadays."

"So you decided to come and finish the job?" John snarled. "Why the hell didn't you just shoot him eighteen months ago and get it over with? Why do…do this, and then give him  _back_?"

He was dicing with danger, he knew, but it worked; Sebastian's tone was almost musing when he replied. He thought John was stupid. He thought John wanted answers, and it made him feel powerful to know he was the only one who could give them. That was fine with John.

"I had to give him back to you to break him. When first had him, no matter what I did, he wouldn't break. He'd scream and cry, he might ask for it to stop, yes. Everyone does that, if you put them through enough. But he wouldn't  _let_ me get to him completely – he'd fight back, no matter what it cost him." Sebastian paused, breathing heavily – his cheeks were flushed, and for the first time John saw the brightness of a madman in his eyes. "But then I realised what the most important thing to Sherlock Holmes was. I made more progress in a few weeks than I had in a year when I threatened you. He'd do almost anything to save your life; say anything, accept anything. It was like building blocks; all I had to do was take the bottom one away, and he'd crumble.

"I was going to kill you in the street and make him watch; there's nothing that breaks a man more than watching his best friend die." Sebastian paused. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

"Why didn't you then?" John spat, ignoring the question fired at him; if he answered, he wouldn't be able to carry on breathing. "Why _wait_?"

"Because it had been so long, he'd begun to forget you were real. 'John' had become some kind of ideal he had to protect, something fictional. I had to make him understand the reality. I had to give him back. And I must say you've done a wonderful job; he's dependant on you now. Completely. And when you're gone, he's going to break for me."

"Why?" John forced out past a tongue that felt heavy and swollen, though not enough to cut off his air supply. He was going to die the slow way, his organs one by one shutting down and giving up. Still, he needed time. 'Why' was the best question; children always used it to take up lesson space, ask why, every time, he had to ask why. Sherlock had bought him so much time; three years of it, the past three years. He'd saved his life more than once, and John hadn't had a clue. Now he had to pay it back, before he could start to think too much about what Sherlock had been through. If he thought about it, he'd start crying. Again.

He was so sick of wanting to cry.

"S-Sherlock tried to kill you, but-ah!" John groaned as his stomach clenched and bile made another bid for freedom. It hovered unpleasantly, and then slid back down again. "What you did…too much…"

"He killed Jim." The tone was almost lost. Sebastian was still crouching too close to Sherlock, like a vulture.

"What are you talking about?" It took him far too long to work out who 'Jim' was. "Moriarty killed himself. It was suicide!"

Sebastian shook his head and gestured towards Sherlock with the gun; for a second John was convinced it would go off, but there was silence. A pause. For the first time in minutes John allowed himself to look away from Sebastian, towards Sherlock, risking drawing attention back to him. Sherlock's face was pale and smooth. He hadn't even twitched "He made it look like suicide. He admitted it!"

John laughed. He was sure it sounded more like a hysterical squawk, spraying bleach-stained saliva onto the carpet. He hated the way it clung to his teeth. "People will admit to anything if you torture them for long enough. I'd say I wear a thong every weekend if you'd…take me to a fucking hospital!" He was careful not to say 'make it stop', because he didn't want a bullet to the head, not yet.

Sebastian didn't waver; he merely picked up the box of matches. "You can't reason with me."

It was with that John realised his borrowed time – not nearly enough of it – had been used up. He'd touched a nerve; reminded a madman what his purpose was. He couldn't take back the mistake, forced to watch, stricken, as Sebastian squatted next to Sherlock and held the match close to his bare shoulder, where there was a cobweb of scars, a long one and several smaller marks, tiny bursts of pale tissue along the collarbone – in the right light, almost invisible. The flame licked over skin for a second, and then Sherlock's eyes flew open and he gave a jerk, a squeak of pain pushing its way from his tongue into the air.

Sebastian shook his head and blew the match out. He was ignoring John completely, like he was a ghost or dead body, something you averted your eyes from. "You've forgotten how to deal with pain, haven't you?" he said quietly, rocking back a couple of centimetres, still balanced perfectly on his heels. "Before, you wouldn't even have blinked at something little like that. He's spoiled you dreadfully, hasn't he?"

John gave a snarl that descended into a cough, clenching his bruised, free hand and looking for some sort of weapon, in vain. Sherlock was already a trembling mass of fear and misery, eyes on Sebastian, horrified and transfixed, perhaps not noticing, not yet, that John was propped up only by the wall, sweating and shivering as the bleach inched its way agonizingly through his system.

If Sebastian heard John's growl he ignored it, keeping his back towards him as he leaned forwards in his crouch, elbows on his knees, to talk to Sherlock, who was eyeing him with such terror John was surprised his heart could keep going. "Quite a little nest you've built yourself here. Look what I found."

Sebastian, from under the table, picked up a small heap of bedclothes and objects John hadn't noticed before now, too panicked to pay attention to a room he lived in, and spread them out on the floor. He threw the jumper aside, then selected the umbrella, stood up, and slammed it against the wall, centimetres from Sherlock's head. It broke in half with a sharp crack. Sherlock flinched and whimpered.

"Please…"

"Ah, ah." Sebastian talked as if to a naughty dog as he bent, found Greg's ID card, and tore it in two. "Save that word for later. You're going to need it."

"Bastard!" John spat, trying to drag Sebastian's attention away from Sherlock. It was about as much use as throwing marshmallows; Sebastian started towards Sherlock and, without a moment's hesitation, smashed the yellow tray against his shoulder. It shattered, jagged plastic flying out and splintering against the wall, and Sherlock let out a sharp cry out as his body reacted to the impact, throwing him sideways. He was left trembling and squirming against the wall, scrabbling to get away, eyes down. The zipties rattled dully against the pipe as he tried to drag himself away from Sebastian, caught a glimpse of John, found his gaze and held it. John was sharply reminded of the look a dying fox had given him by the roadside, when he'd run it over by mistake, a long, long time ago.

"John," he whimpered. "John, please…"

"Sherlock," John ground out. He knew he had to pretend he was alright, that everything would be alright; he could see his hard work of the past weeks cracking like an eggshell treated too roughly. "Sherlock, don't listen to-" His breath hitched as vomit threatened to force its way into his throat, cutting him off, and in that moment of weakness Sebastian moved in, giving a loud clap next to Sherlock's left ear.

Sherlock shrieked like an animal, pulling his legs up into his chest; saliva dribbled from his chin, his face was smeared and bright pink. It was painful for John to watch as Sherlock whipped his head away in a futile attempt to cover his ears, protect himself from the noise. The ties, cruelly tight, held him back, biting viciously at the skin. "Please make it stop, John, make it stop…"

Sherlock was half-screaming, half-crying, in such a state of panic and distress he looked like he could barely breathe. John had a fist forming in his throat, a sickening lump of frustration and anger, because Sherlock was begging for his help, and he couldn't even manage to shout; his throat was too tight, too sore; he could barely whisper. Mycroft had trusted him to protect Sherlock, and he was failing miserably. It made him want to scream; it made his heart swell and tremble. It hurt.

"He can't make it stop," Sebastian snarled, backhanding Sherlock sharply. "He doesn't care about you now; he's dying."

"Don't kill John…" Sherlock choked out, burying his head in his knees, even though he had to curl unnaturally to accomplish it, arms pinned back against the pipe, shoulder blades jutting like the nubs of a bird's wings.

Sebastian laughed. "Are we still on that?" Sherlock said nothing, snuffling to himself. "You're already too late. He's dying now; he's had too much to drink."

Sherlock raised his head. John began to cough, unable to stop it as his throat worked reflexively in horrible, jarring cramps, drowning out the rest of whatever poison Sebastian was spitting into Sherlock's ears. As he heaved and winced and his stomach threw acid around in panic, John forced himself back into practicality. He was a soldier – he didn't give up. How long until help arrived? Greg wasn't due back until tomorrow evening. No-one else would drop round – he'd pushed all the neighbours away; even if someone heard a noise the chances were they wouldn't report it. The modern world was overflowing with televisions and radios; people assumed most sounds were mundane. As for Mycroft…he was irregular in his visits at the best of times. Mycroft's guards changed in ten hours, or so Sebastian had said. It was still dark outside. Perhaps…-another fit of retching broke off the train of thought. By the time it was over, he was slumped on the floor, cheek pressed against the gritty carpet.

Whatever Sebastian had said to Sherlock had had the desired effect; by the time John managed to quell his coughing Sherlock was making a low keening noise at the other end of the room, a continuous throb of sound that rose and fell.

"This is your fault, Sherlock," Sebastian murmured. "If you hadn't cared about him, I wouldn't have had to kill him."

Sherlock gave a whine and shifted, his foot entering John's field of vision, toes curled, and then vanishing again.

"Don't look away." There was a scuffle and a squeak, and John tipped his head up enough to see Sebastian's hand clenched tightly around Sherlock's chin, wrenching his head so he was forced to look forwards. Sherlock's eyes were wide and beginning to glaze over – as if the whole thing were too much for him to register – and John knew he wasn't the only one to have noticed when Sebastian clipped him sharply around the back of the head, making him cringe. "Look at him."

Sherlock's gaze came back into focus. His lip was bleeding, a slow trickle of brownish-red dropping from the corner of his mouth and mixing pink with the saliva that still clung to his chin. His eyelashes were clumped into small spikes, and when John caught his eye his face crumpled, and he tried to look away again. The hand stopped him; they battled for a couple of seconds, veins standing out sharply on the side of Sherlock's neck as he struggled to avert his gaze. John wasn't offended; he didn't want Sherlock to see.

"Sherlock, don't listen to him," he murmured. "Don't you…don't you d-dare listen to a word he says. You haven't-ah!" He coughed. "You haven't hurt me…and…and…fuck…" He gave up again, letting his head drop onto the carpet, although he kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. There would be hours of this yet. He'd probably be mad by the time it was over. He couldn't even get a comfortable position to die in, not with one arm wrenched behind him. One arm tied back gave him no support; it only threw him more off-balance, made everything hurt more as his body twisted to the absurd angle. He knew now why Sebastian had chosen it.

A sound rang out in the moaning and coughing that filled the flat. Even Sebastian jumped, and Sherlock gave a hitched cry. John was beyond surprise.

It was a phone, a mobile, tinny and irritating, not John's, because his did the Macarena and had been on silent for weeks anyway, and this one was your simple ringtone, the kind that came pre-set with any mobile – an electronic bell, a buzzing whine. To John's – was it outrage? – Sebastian didn't simply knock the sound off and carry on watching them; he fished the phone out of his pocket and glanced at it, then pressed a button and held it up to his ear. John gaped, wondering if he was hallucinating. It seemed wrong, somehow, that the man killing him should care so little about the process.

Then again, it was all for Sherlock's 'benefit'. John was just another instrument of torture.

"Hello?" There was a pause, and another voice came over the line, so faint John, over his coughing and Sherlock's half-sobs, couldn't make it out. It seemed Sebastian was having trouble as well because he waved a hand at them, frowned, and then got to his feet. "Hang on…yes, I  _know_ …I've just got to get away from this noise…yeah…"

And with that he passed out of the living room and into the bedroom, pulling the door to behind him. He had the good sense to take his gun, not that they could have reached it anyway. John swallowed and tried to stop coughing long enough to speak, eyes darting around the room, looking for some sort of weapon. There were shards of plastic tray within reach of his untied hand, but they were flimsy and small, and even if he could get close enough to Sebastian to take a swing at him with one he doubted it would do much damage. He could try and saw through the zipties with one, but he knew that would be about as effective as trying to cut metal with butter.

His eyes fell on the house phone, cordless, balanced on a table, far out of John's reach, but…not close exactly, but perhaps, just perhaps, within range of Sherlock's long legs.


	20. Tipping

"Sherlock, look at me." John tried to keep his voice steady. It was more difficult than he would have liked.

After a couple of second's hesitation Sherlock looked up, tears dripping off the end of his chin. He blinked, tipped his head to one side, and said nothing.

"I'm fine," John murmured, as if by saying it he could make it true. "I'm going to be fine, but you need to do what I tell you."

Sherlock eyed John with quizzical, sad air. His lips were trembling; his whole  _body_  was trembling. "I…I…"

"Shh," John whispered, forcing down another cough. "Or he'll hear."

With a small intake of air Sherlock made a visible effort to pull himself together, suppressing his shaking by grinding his bare feet into the carpet. John waited, listening to the buzz of conversation coming from behind the bedroom door to see if it was going to trail off any time soon. It seemed to be going in full swing; Sebastian's voice was raised and irritated. John felt sorry for whoever was on the other end of the line as he forced himself to sit up straight, dragging his legs into his chest as his abdomen screamed in protest.

"See the phone on the table?" Sherlock's eyes followed John's, and he nodded. "Can you knock it down?"

Sherlock looked from John to the phone and back again, biting his lip anxiously. John tried to appear as if he didn't feel like he was about to heave his stomach up through his body and onto the floor; tried to act reassuring. He was gasping for breath, half-convinced someone had dropped a lighted match down his throat whilst he was distracted. But he waited. Patience.

Eventually Sherlock engaged himself, shuffling his back down the wall until his arms were stretched to their fullest extent, toes flexing against the carpet. The table was about two inches away from his foot. Sherlock lifted his leg and kicked out at it, but his toes didn't even skim the surface of the wood. John kept his eyes fixed on the gap, breath catching in his throat as Sherlock strained and struggled, trying desperately to move the ziplock loops along the pipe, but even when he shuffled along his legs still fell short.

John gave a strangled groan as his muscles gave out and he slid helplessly back down the wall, starting to retch again. His vision was beginning to blur around the edges, and every time he heaved white lines shot around the corners of his eyes. He panted and choked and tried desperately to keep the toxic substance down, and by the time he looked up, eyes watering, Sherlock was curled in on himself again, head pressed into his knees as he muttered; John, lying flat with the carpet pressed to his cheek, couldn't make the words out, but he thought he heard his name.

"It's alright," he said softly, desperation tingeing the edge of his tone now; they were running out of time. "Sherlock, please…just get the phone and I'll be alright."

He got no reaction, and time was dribbling through the cracks between his fingers – every time he breathed Sebastian was closer to coming back. His mind whirred, making him feel dizzy, as he settled on the one thing he remembered that, a long time ago, had brought something close to anger into Sherlock's eyes. If there was one thing they could use right now, it was anger.

"You're not stupid, are you?"

Sherlock looked up again, fresh tears gathering at the corners of his eyes like small pearls stuck onto the flesh, ready to drop. "What?"

"I said-" He coughed, winced, and carried on, panting. "I said, you're not stupid. Remember what you said? You're not stupid. A stupid thing to do would be to leave that phone there. Get the phone, and we'll be alright." His eyes bulged as his insides heaved and rolled again. "I'll be alright."

Sherlock was blinking; the tears in the corners of his eyes hadn't vanished, but they hadn't fallen either. "Promise?"

John had no choice but to say yes.

As soon as he'd given his word Sherlock re-galvanised himself, stretching his legs out experimentally, drawing them back, and then power-kicking forwards, arching and then straightening his back with a sharp jerk that made John wince. His toenails missed the table leg by a hair as his movement was arrested by the ties. John released his breath, not knowing he'd been holding it. He could see blood trickling from Sherlock's wrists where the plastic had cut the skin.

Sherlock dragged his legs back into his chest. There was a steely glint to his eyes, cold, detached, and harsh. John wanted to tell him not to do anything stupid, but he knew he'd already promised they'd be alright, and the only way they were going to get out of this alive would be if they got that phone.

Sherlock threw himself forwards a second time; there was a sickening popping sound and a squeal of suppressed agony. John couldn't tell at his distance exactly what had happened; only that Sherlock's wrists were bleeding so profusely the blood was beginning to reach his elbows, that he was biting his lip hard enough to split it, and that his foot had finally made contact with the table leg.

The phone, already precariously close to the edge, teetered, rocking back and forth. John kept his eyes fixed on it, desperate to avert his gaze from Sherlock's already-swelling wrists, as if he could force it by sheer willpower to fall off the edge and onto the floor. If it didn't, if it went backwards and hit the table, they weren't getting out of here. The fact that the direction an object fell in was the deciding factor of both their lives was disturbing; it made him feel small and stupid and lost.

For a second the phone rocked back, out of reach; it waited, poised like a dancer, and then slowly toppled forwards off the edge, and fell to the carpet with a soft thud, face down. One of the keys pressed in with a sharp beep and John's heart gave a jolt, but nothing happened. It seemed they'd gone unheard.

Sherlock was crying, hot tears making streaks in the blood still clinging to his face. John reached out a hand to him, guts twisting again now there was nothing to distract them.

"Sherlock, kick the phone to me." He felt heartless, demanding more. Sherlock's wrists were rubbed raw, and there was something about the swelling and the popping noise that the doctor part of him didn't like. God knew what damage wrenching so hard on them had done, but he had to face facts; Sherlock couldn't type with his toes, couldn't get the phone to his hand in any way, but John knew he could manage it if the damn thing were within his reach. "Please, kick it to me."

Sherlock edged his toes along the carpet, groaning in the back of his throat. He got the ball of his foot onto the phone and slowly dragged it sideways with another suppressed beep, bringing it in line with John's hand before he pulled the foot back, bent his leg, and quickly kicked, sending the phone skittering over the carpet. It veered off course and John, acting without thinking, threw himself to the left to intercept it before it went out of reach; he managed to clamp a the wrist of his free arm over it, but the violent manoeuvre caused his body to decide it really wasn't having this any more and attempt, once again, to rid itself of the bleach sitting in his stomach. It took almost a minute of controlled breathing before he felt able to move again.

No time to think about what was happening inside him. He flipped the phone over and dialled three nines before resting it next to his chin – he didn't have the strength to actually lift it to his ear. He kept his eyes fixed on the bedroom door, trying to be ready if there was any sign it was going to open; the twist of the handle or the shudder it always made along the carpet.

Someone at the other end picked up. John gave a long sigh of relief as the words rang out, a smooth female voice, calm. "You have dialled emergency services. Fire, police or ambulance?"

He was temped to say ambulance, but he knew exactly what Sebastian would do to a crew of paramedics who showed up alone. "Police."

"What is your emergency?"

John explained as briefly as he could, forcing the words out in a hurried, murmured stream of sound as he thought he heard the conversation on the other side of the door dying down; he couldn't make out the raised voices any more. "Me and my friend are being held hostage by a single man with a gun. We're both restrained, but we've managed to reach the phone." Obviously, his brain told him. Stop wasting time. "He's out of the room but he'll be coming back any minute." He stopped to cough, getting flecks of yellow-stained bile on the phone keys. "We…we're at…" His head was spinning again, and he almost said '221b Baker Street' because that was where he wished he was right now, sitting on the sofa watching crap telly with Sherlock hurling abuse at whoever or whatever came on the screen. He wanted to be there so badly it hurt, making his chest throb almost as much as his throat. Sherlock's gasping was distracting; it was difficult to concentrate.

In the end he managed to stutter out the correct address, and the woman informed him someone would be 'right over.' Just before he was about to cut his losses, hang up and hide the phone, she spoke again. "Sir, do you need a medical team alongside the police?"

It occurred to him that she could hardly have missed his coughing and hacking. He glanced towards Sherlock, who looked practically unconscious, head flopped to one side and blood dripping from his wrists down the wall. John wondered how much pain he was in, and then decided not to think about it.

"Yes," he murmured eventually. The sooner they got attention, the better; the police would protect the paramedics. That was their job.

"Please can you describe to me the nature of-"

He didn't hear the rest because he saw the handle of the bedroom door twist down, heard it squeak as the light flashed off the metal. He had just enough time to grab the phone and stuff it down his trousers – a lump in his shirt would be too obvious and besides, he expected it to be the last place Sebastian would look. If he bent his legs a certain way the bulge was completely hidden, and it was less painful to be curled up. Or at least, he forced himself to believe it was.

As Sebastian came back through, pushing his mobile into his pocket without a word, John realised a tinny sound was still coming from the phone, the woman's voice asking if he was still there, and he hastily rolled over, turning his back on Sebastian and Sherlock and crushing the buttons against his legs, coughing loudly to mask the beeping noise the pressed keys made. The small voice died.

"Don't ignore me," Sebastian said sternly. John closed his eyes, breathing heavily. "If I'd wanted you to ignore me then I could have shot you in the head the second you opened the door."

John shuddered as another stab of agony shot up his throat from his belly. "Why do you want me to p-pay attention to you?"

Sebastian snorted. "I want him to pay attention." There was a thud and a squeal. "You're supposed to be watching this. Both of you, watching each other, now."

John rolled back over, feeling the phone settle against his left shin as it slipped down his trouser leg. It might have been funny in another place, at another time. Context. Sherlock was looking at him but his eyes were half-closed, his breathing slowing. John hoped he would pass out, that he wouldn't have to see. He hoped he understood help was coming, at least in time for him, if not for John. If they could just get Sherlock out…

"Don't kill John."

Sebastian rolled his eyes – at least John thought he did, it was difficult to tell – and pressed his shoe down over Sherlock's bare toes, squashing cruelly until Sherlock yelped. "Pathetic. Can't you see what's right in front of your face? I  _am_ killing him. He's going to choke to death on his own puke, and it's because of you."

Sherlock looked up. "I don't understand…"

A gleam came into Sebastian's eyes; John could feel it radiating across the room, obvious in the way the man was standing. Triumph. "You've never said that one before," he murmured. "Say it again."

Sherlock was looking more and more confused. John wanted to scream at him to stay grounded, keep his reason, not to be stupid, but when he opened his mouth a cough broke out of it and stopped him.

"I don't understand."

Sebastian looked on the verge of clapping his hands. "John's dying, because of you. You killed him."

"I didn't…I don't…" Sherlock's eyes flicked over to John, but the recognition was fading in them; John could see it slipping away, like silk falling off a table. Sherlock was finally shutting everything out, crawling inside his shell, and the more Sebastian convinced him he was guilty, the further away he'd get.

"How the…the hell do you expect to get away with this?" John burst out, pushing the words from between his lips with the last of his strength. It was worth using it up if he could distract Sebastian long enough for Sherlock to get out. John didn't have much time, but he was damn well going to give it over, if that was what he had to do.

The flames that had been licking eagerly at his insides were starting to feel more like waves now; cold water.

"I've found dead men can say very little to the police, and I intend to be long gone before they show up." There was a click, the sound of a gun being put down. "But not like this. A bullet's too obvious nowadays, too easy to trace. They'll find you right where you are. As for Sherlock…" Sebastian poked him with his toe. Sherlock flinched. "Once he's broken he'll walk right into the blade of a knife without questioning it. You have some very nice knives in the kitchen. Good quality."

If it had been said five minutes ago John was sure he would have been sick, but he found he didn't have the strength to bring anything up. He took in Sherlock with his bloody wrists and his dull expression and let his mouth tremble at the side; all he could do was close his eyes and twitch a finger against the carpet, feeling the fibres dig under his nails. He had no words left, and certainly no voice to say them with.


	21. Fragments

John found himself walking in the desert, serenely and softly. People shot at him and missed, until eventually he stopped wincing every time he heard the crack of a gun, knowing the bullets wouldn't hit him. He was safe.

The gunfire eased off. Silence fell. He was alone. And then someone materialised in front of him and, without even a twitch of the facial muscles, stuck a hand down his throat and wrenched out his heart. He gave a scream that was muffled by their arm as he felt their fist slide in his gullet, grinding into the soft flesh. They were wearing feathers, they  _looked_ primeval, but they had sandy hair and a grin.

He ran, leaving his heart in the man's hand.

* * *

The forest greeted him bitterly, scratching at his arms and legs, digging sharp pine needles into his skin as he whipped by, running without moving his legs. He could hear Sherlock shouting for him, but he didn't stop, couldn't stop. A branch struck him across the cheek like a slap. Sherlock's voice faded away, leaving him feeling confused and guilty.

* * *

Sherlock jumped from the top of a tall wave that rose out of an icy ocean into the shape of a rooftop, and when John tried to run to him he sank under the surface and drowned so slowly it was like falling asleep.

* * *

John was alone on a pavement, next to a building he didn't need to see to know it was St Bart's. At his feet was a tube of glue and some needles and thread, and he knew he was supposed to put together the thousands and thousands of tiny pieces that littered the road. The task was impossible. It was always impossible. Some of the pieces were black, some blue, and some were blood red, but he never knew which order they were supposed to go in, and no matter what substance he used to force them back together again they always fell apart.

There was something heavy on his head. When he put a hand up to it he found it was a fuzzy hat, ridiculously tall. Busby. He didn't have time to wonder why he was wearing it, why he was wearing a bright red jacket – he hated bright red. He had to get the pieces to stick. It was important.

He worked as fast as he could with trembling hands, but every time the pieces dropped to the floor the hat grew heavier and heaver, until it was so large it obscured his vision and forced his head down, and he sank right through the pavement, leaving the bits of Sherlock behind him, still broken.

* * *

John woke.

He knew he was awake because it hurt; his throat seemed to be made of splinters and bile. He was sticky and hot, and his nose throbbed dully. It was a supreme effort not to drop off again; there was a machine humming in the background that made a comforting, lazy sound, better than counting sheep.

He wanted to know where he was. Or why. Or how. He didn't remember a lot of things, not after Greg had left. Something must have happened; he wasn't dreaming any more. Things had changed.

He hoped someone was looking after Sherlock. He wished he could breathe without it hurting. He needed to pee. His thoughts were jumbled and broken, mixed up in blurs of yellow and blue and white, and he knew he should open his eyes, but that seemed too much to hope for. He lay quietly instead, listening intently to the sounds that surrounded him, slowly picking them apart, keeping his breathing steady.

Hum. Hum. Hum.

If he hadn't already guessed from the smell he knew he was in a hospital now; he couldn't think of anywhere else machines might be humming in the same room as a bed. How he'd got to the hospital, he didn't know. He went through it in his head; his name was John Watson. He was a doctor. He knew his address, his age, who was prime minister. Not a head injury then; not a severe one. Just confusion. At least, he thought it was confusion. It was difficult to tell.

A siren wailed past outside. He thought he heard a voice from the opposite direction – someone walking through the corridor, or on the pavement outside, talking. Two people then. But no other voices, no sound of a television, so he was most likely alone; he had his own room, for now. If that was the case, either Mycroft was sticking his nose into things again, or he hadn't been here long.

Or something was incredibly wrong with him that would disturb other patients. But it was his insides that hurt, and not in a concentrated area, although it grew stronger in his stomach and throat. Not a bullet wound then, probably. Memories bled through the veil of confusion, slipping by just out of reach; every time he dived for one it dodged away, like silvery fish darting around in a pool.

He was about to make another grab for a sliver of information when he realised someone had entered the room, and they spoke, not to him, but to someone else. Or at least he assumed they weren't talking to him; for all intents and purposes, he was still asleep. He still felt half-asleep.

"You shouldn't be up there." Female, northern accent. There was no sound in reply, but he felt the mattress bob as someone shifted on it and realised he wasn't alone on the bed. Something, most likely a foot or hand, brushed softly against his leg.

"Mr Holmes, you have to go now." Her voice was firm but patient, kindly and stern at the same time. John had already guessed who she was addressing before the name had been spoken, but having it confirmed made his heart jolt. He wasn't alone. "Mr Holmes, it's time for you to go to bed."

It was while before she got a reply, and when it came it was quiet, but stubborn. "I don't want to."

"When I allowed you to come here you promised you would go to bed on time tonight."

John wanted to laugh, but his mouth hurt too much; being a general nuisance was one of the old Sherlock's specialties. His breathing might have hitched as he tried to get the sound out, but he doubted either of them noticed.

"I don't want him to be alone."

A sigh. "He's getting better, and I'm sure he'll wake up very soon, but you need to go to bed."

Sherlock gave a plaintive whine and John felt a hand touch his ankle through the stiff material of the bed sheets. "I can go to bed here…"

"No you can't. You need to be back in your own room where we can look after you. John isn't strong enough to do that yet." John got the impression she'd had this conversation, or something like it, at least twice already. "Come on. You can come back in the morning."

There was a shuffling noise and the hand was pulled away from his ankle with a firm jerk. John knew that now was the time to say something, to sit up and ask for Sherlock to stay, to mutter words of encouragement, but he couldn't do it. He was too tired, and when he tried to force words past his slightly parted lips he couldn't even manage a croak; his throat burned in resistance. Exhaustion crept up on him so quickly he didn't even realise it was coming, and by the time the door clicked shut and Sherlock's muttered protests died away, John was asleep.

* * *

When he woke a second time things were clearer. The humming machine had been taken away, and without its constant buzz in his ears he could tell there was someone else with him; he could hear their breathing, even and soft, fluttering around the room. He twitched a few fingers experimentally and found that things hurt less. He was fuzzy, probably due to painkillers, but less tired and certainly less confused. That was good. He could remember things, even if they were unpleasant things like zipties and sandy hair.

He sat up as quickly as he dared, opening his eyes and blinking a few times before reaching up a hand attached to a drip and pushing his hair out of his face. His vision was blurred, but he could make out a figure at the other side of the room, perched on a chair. He blinked again, frowned, and let his face fall; if the umbrella hadn't told him straight away then the way they sat was all wrong. It wasn't Sherlock.

"Mycroft." Despite the painkillers the single word made his throat ache.

"You needn't look so disappointed," Mycroft murmured. "Sherlock is asleep right now, and I'm sure you wouldn't want me to wake him."

John slumped back on the pillows with a groan. "How's he?" He skipped words and syllables deliberately, cutting down as much as possible on what he had to iterate. It was difficult, with his throat so weak, to keep the fear out of his voice; before he'd passed out Sherlock had looked close to dying from sheer terror. He'd stopped recognising John, and despite the brief dream-like moment where John was sure he'd felt Sherlock sitting on his bed, he was petrified Sherlock had forgotten him. Deleted him, because he couldn't deal with it.

"That depends on what you take into consideration. On the purely physical side he has a dislocated wrist and several cuts and bruises."

John glared. "M're."

The umbrella turned over. It made John feel dizzy. "The nurses are unsure. He reacts badly to anyone who resembles Sebastian Moran; anyone tall with sandy hair. Past that, as long as he can remain near to you, he is doing surprisingly well. It is only when he's removed from your presence he is prone to worry or panic."

John felt as if his chest was going to sag right through the bed as he let out a sigh of relief. If Sherlock wanted to be close to him, then he hadn't forgotten; the earlier fragment hadn't been another dream.

"Then why remove'm?"

"Because he cannot sleep here. The nurses, quite rightly, want to keep him for observation in another room, especially at night." Around went the umbrella again. John was getting thoroughly sick of it. "As for yourself, you'll be pleased to know you've suffered no severe permanent damage, although it's quite possible you will have stomach and throat problems for an extended period of time. The doctors are confident that, if you're careful, they shouldn't impinge on your life too horrendously."

John rolled his eyes. "M'doctor. Know." He coughed and wished he hadn't; it felt like knives were stabbing his mouth, forcing their way into his gums. "What happened?" he gasped out, trying to hide the fact his eyes were watering from pain. "Aft'r phone?"

Mycroft heaved a sigh. "Nothing too dramatic, I'm glad to say. The police arrived, did their job, and left you and Sherlock in the hands of the paramedics, who brought the both of you straight to hospital, sedated Sherlock, and pumped your stomach." John winced, still feeling the effects. "When he heard the sirens Moran tried to shoot the both of you before escaping, but he'd failed to realise the police had both the lounge window and the door covered. He won't be bothering you again."

John cocked an eyebrow. "Dead?"

"Very. As soon as he saw them at the window, when he realised they would shoot him before he could kill either of you, he saved them the job. Shot himself."

John nodded on the pillow. "Good." Even with his throat in agony he managed to make the words drip poison. If fact, it probably helped; pain was good for that sort of thing. Dramatics. As if choking on the floor of his own living room had been anywhere near dramatic. Dramatic was good – exciting. It hadn't been exciting. It had been excruciating.

Mycroft didn't tell John his sentiment was wrong. "Moran was the man who had Sherlock in his captivity for eighteen months, or so we're assuming. Sherlock was unable to recount much of what happened to him, and the police want your statement as soon as possible. The news of Sherlock's return has still been kept out of the media. It's safer for him; we don't know how many of Moriarty's circle continue to be at large. Your testimony could be useful."

John nodded stiffly. "Paper. Pen. I'll write."

Mycroft produced John's laptop from under his seat with a flourish. "I took the liberty of bringing this over. When you've got the facts down email a copy to me and I'll send it on the police."

John made noise in the back of his throat and nodded again, pushing the laptop to one side for later and closing his eyes. There was the sound of Mycroft getting to his feet – the scrape of a chair and the click of his umbrella against the floor.

"I'll leave you to recover," he said. "I've been told you'll be transferred to another ward early next morning, now they're sure you're going to make a full recovery."

John grunted to show he'd heard. "Sherlock?"

"Is in a separate area of the hospital. I'll be sure to arrange visiting times for him." Mycroft paused. "He fought back in the end. When the police arrived he was keeping Moran back with just his feet. As soon as they let him out of the ties, he tried to go to you. It took three of them to hold him back."

There was the sound of the door closing, and John was alone again.

* * *

He dreamt of the pavement outside St Bart's again, but this time he didn't try to fix the pieces right away. He took off the fuzzy hat, and the horrible red uniform, and threw them away. Without them he wasn't weighed down, and he could work for as long as he needed to.


	22. Poker

The ward they put him on was full of mildly irritable men who were in much the same boat as himself; there was one who'd accidentally overdosed on paracetamol, another who'd managed to get rubbing alcohol mixed up with vodka, and one he still hadn't talked to after breakfast because they were on the other side of the room and it felt wrong to shout across the ward. The two either side of him were reasonably jovial, considering they were in a hospital, but everyone had either sore throats or sore stomachs, or both. Talking was minimised.

John spent a couple of hours typing and emailing, and the rest of his time playing poker with the bloke on the left, but all the time his anxiety was growing. Where was Sherlock? After spending so long practically locked in the same four rooms with him, and that after the three year period of his absence, not being near him was worrying.

Morning visiting time came and went with no sign. The poker game was abandoned in favour of introductions to wives and girlfriends and conversations that mostly excluded him.

"Got anyone coming this afternoon then?"

He shrugged. "Don't know."

The sudden swarm of people left, and the poker game resumed. John won four of five matches, was accused good-naturedly of cheating, and revealed he'd got a lot of practice at cards in the army.

It was drawing close to lunchtime and John was beginning to feel lonely, despite the people around him. He kept glancing towards the door without realising he was doing it, unable to help himself, but time crawled on and Sherlock still hadn't come to see him. He went from mildly resentful to concerned in the space of about ten minutes, until he was jiggling his foot against the side of the bed constantly. One of the others told him to cut it out because it was putting him 'off his game'. John stopped and stared resolutely at his cards, trying to concentrate.

He heard the door open and there was the sound of squeaking wheels and the rattling of pills in plastic cups which indicated the trolley coming round again, so he didn't bother turning his head to look, remaining seated with his legs over the side of the bed and his back to the door – he'd tried laying down whilst playing, but lifting his arms hurt, and he kept dropping the cards on his face. It was easier to sit, even if it made his insides cramp every now and then.

He'd barely had time to glance at his new hand when something hit him from behind with a force that made him jerk and wince, scattering cards all over the floor. A pair of arms wrapped themselves tightly around his chest, and he looked down to see one wrist was in supportive bandages, and the other covered in plasters, just as a head was buried in his back. Hair tickled his neck as someone mumbled into his hospital pyjamas.

"John…"

John shuffled awkwardly round, putting a hand up to Sherlock's wrists and tugging them away very gently, careful not to disturb the bandages on the left wrist – that must have been the dislocated one. Made sense; it had been further away from the table, if he remembered rightly. More pressure, the sliding of the joints, more strain. He could visualise it like a medical diagram, and it made him shudder.

"Hey," he said softly, tilting Sherlock's head, which had fallen onto his chest as he turned, and stroking a thumb over his cheekbones; hang his conscience, they'd both nearly died. Again. Sherlock's face was bruised in a couple of places, his bottom lip scabbed over and puffy, but his eyes had lost the dull sheen they'd begun to take on towards the end of their session with Sebastian. John was glad of that. Very glad.

"Don't be angry."

"M'not angry." He coughed again, and swallowed uncomfortably. "Why'd I be angry?"

Sherlock shifted backwards on the bed and lowered his head so his hair fell over his face and obscured his forehead and lashes, saying nothing. John could feel the eyes of the ward on them.

"Sherlock, look at me," he said firmly, tipping Sherlock's chin up with his thumb and crossing both his legs on the bed, being very careful not to wince. "Don't think about anything Sebastian said." He coughed again and massaged his throat; Sherlock's eyes followed his hand intently. "It was lies," he croaked. "Not your fault. At all. And he's gone now." His voice cracked. "He's gone, and you held him off, and he's not coming back, and…and…"

He couldn't finish. Sherlock's lip trembled as he shuffled close to John again, pushing his head into the crook of his neck and shuddering. John sighed and brought up a hand to rub circles on his back, rocking them back and forth gently. At first Sherlock made a low humming noise at the top of his throat, but as time slid on he began to shiver less and breathe more, and the sound trailed off. John glanced briefly at the male nurse who'd come in with the trolley and was handing out meals to the other occupants, most of whom were either staring or quite obviously averting their eyes. John couldn't stop himself flushing, and he focused on Sherlock again, trying to forget them.

"I'm fine," he murmured, putting a hand up to the back of Sherlock's head and supporting it gently, although he resisted the urge to twist the curls between his fingers. "I promise."

Sherlock nodded into John's shoulder before pulling back and scrubbing at his face, leaving a red mark on the skin. "They wouldn't let me see you at first." He sniffed. "I thought…"

"Don't think it." John cut Sherlock off before he could work himself into a frenzy. The nurse placed two trays of food on the bedside table, and two sets of cutlery. John reached for one of the trays and held it out. "Sit properly, and I'll balance this on your knees for you." Sherlock obediently shifted so he was sitting, cross-legged, at the foot of the bed and John was able to steady the tray and hand him cutlery. He held it awkwardly, pinched between fingers restricted by the bandages, but began to eat without hesitation. John smiled as much as his sore lips would allow and reached for his own meal, picking at it dubiously.

The man in the bed to the left was watching them out of the corner of his eye, scrambled eggs untouched on his tray, making assumptions, judgements. John gave him a tiny smile and swallowed. "This is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is…" He hesitated a second, trying to remember the name he'd been told once, several hours ago. "George."

George nodded. "Nice to meet you."

Sherlock ignored him in favour of pushing carrots around his plate with mild interest. John shrugged apologetically, not wanting to force anything, just as the nurse came and handed John a two cups of pills, one with JW and one with SH written on them in black marker, thick and messy. He could see fingerprints smudged at the base of his own. Water was readily available from a nearby jug, and he swallowed his own pills without question. Sherlock was still poking at vegetables with his fork balanced precariously between two fingers.

"Sherlock?" John said quietly, pushing his nearly-clear tray aside and leaning forwards on the bed with a glass of water in one hand and the pills in the other. Sherlock looked up at him, blinking.

"Mm?"

John held out his hand. "You need to take these."

For a second Sherlock's old look of suspicion crept into his face, eyes narrowing, lips pressing together. It was almost automatic, and John understood, keeping quiet and patient until Sherlock assessed the situation and calmed himself, then took the pills with little fuss and pushed his tray away. John put it on the side with the other one, and wondered how long Sherlock was going to be allowed to stay. When he looked up to ask if the nurse knew, he found he'd vanished.

Even something as simple as forcing a few mouthfuls of soggy food down had exhausted him. He hadn't felt so tired since the nights he and Sherlock had been forced to run around London together, or since he'd been shot and ended up feeling breathless just standing. It was pain, he decided as he shuffled back under the covers, leaning back on the pillows with a sigh; pain and worry made everything twice as tiring.

Sherlock moved up the bed and settled his head on John's shoulder with an air of determinism that indicated he wouldn't be getting up for a long time. One arm was wrapped protectively around John's ribs, and his legs were pulled up into his body, knees over knees. John put a hand to Sherlock's back, supporting him gently so he didn't start to slide off the bed.

"D'you want to talk?" he croaked. "About…" About how a man tortured him for eighteen months, and then come back to do it again. About how John had entirely failed to keep Sherlock safe. About how Sherlock had left for three years to go and kill Moriarty's men, all by himself. They were building up, the things John knew he couldn't ask. "About whatever."

Sherlock mumbled something and sighed.

"Sorry?"

"Tell Lestrade that I'll be late working on his case…"

John chuckled. "Alright." He pulled some of the sheets that were hanging over the sides of the bed up to cover Sherlock's shoulder and back. "You still want to help him?"

Sherlock nodded firmly into John's chest. "Like old times."

John started, clenching his hand unintentionally on Sherlock's back. "I suppose so," he murmured. "Sherlock…I…" He trailed off. He knew what he wanted – he wanted to grab Sherlock and kiss him and tell him he was sorry. He wanted to hold him and hide the both of them away. His heart was ready to burst with the need to tell Sherlock. But he couldn't; it wasn't enough that Sherlock seemed better than he had done in the past weeks. That was nothing, seeing as the time had been horrendous. Sherlock wasn't the same. He looked the same, sometimes he even walked or talked the same, but he wasn't himself.

And John, despite everything, was still in love with him. It made his breath hitch, his chest squeeze; it was the first time he'd admitted it to himself since Sherlock had returned. He felt immediately uncomfortable, guilt making his pale cheeks flush.

"What?" Sherlock murmured, tipping his head up and staring at John intently – John was reminded of the first time Sherlock had stared at him like that, reading him, calculating and deducing him. But he couldn't let himself be fooled, because it wouldn't be fair.

John had to be a doctor, above all else, because that was better for Sherlock.

"Nothing," he said softly. "It's nothing. I'm just glad you're alright. I'm very glad you're here – I…I miss you when you're not."

Sherlock smiled. For a second John thought he was going to say something, but eventually he just tipped his head back down onto John's chest and closed his eyes.

John spent the next few minutes staring blankly at the opposite wall and trying to maintain his composure. It was less difficult than he'd expected – he'd been kidding himself for so long it was easy to let the mask fall down again, let his shoulders slump. He even tried to remove his hand from Sherlock's back, but when he did Sherlock began to slide off the edge of the bed, so he had to put it back again.

"Hey?" someone said softly. John turned his head and swallowed uncomfortably when he saw George still looking at him, cards in hand. He could feel his ears stinging. Sherlock gave a sleepy mumble and rubbed his nose against John's pyjamas before dropping off again.

"I'll have to forfeit the game," he whispered, feeling his legs beginning to go numb under Sherlock's weight. "Don't want to wake him."

George inclined his head. "Who's he then? Your…" John saw eyes flick to the hand on Sherlock's back, and he knew what was coming before it was said. "Boyfriend?"

A hoarse, hollow laugh built in John's throat and broke from his lips with a low snorting sound that made his stomach and throat throb. "No. Just a friend. Best friend."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." The cards were being shuffled, even though no-one was playing. "I just thought…well, you seem to care about him a lot. That's…" George hesitated; his expression was unreadable. "I think that's great."

John tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "If you say so."


	23. Chips

They moved back into 221b about two weeks after coming out of hospital, because both of them wanted to, Mrs Hudson had allowed them to, and there was a bullet hole in their lounge wall neither of them wanted to look at. John found he'd missed it immensely, the nooks and crannies he'd forced himself to forget. Sherlock took to it like a duck to water, finding his old haunts and rearranging his dusty things as best he could with his wrist in bandages.

Although it seemed to make no sense at all, Sherlock was better than he had been before they'd been visited by Sebastian. It was if some kind of weight had been lifted completely off his shoulders; he moved freely, more animatedly, he no longer shuffled, and he spoke loudly, in longer sentences. It was like his old personality had burst forwards again after so many weeks and months of being suppressed. Sherlock knew Sebastian was gone, and he wasn't afraid any more.

It wasn't a miracle, but it was there.

John found it harder than ever to contain himself. Before It, he would never have considered telling Sherlock anything; he would have kept his mouth shut until the day he died. That was the problem. He had nearly died, and Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, had done so, for three years.

But there was nothing he could do, apart from hope not to slip up and tend to his burned mouth as best his could. His throat croaked and sent agonising spikes up to his mouth when he spoke; sometimes his gums bled. He couldn't eat anything sharp without sucking it soft first. Once he accidentally poked himself in the mouth with his fork and the pain had almost caused him to pass out before it subsided to a dull, heavy throb. His tongue was worse than all of it put together, constantly dry and fuzzy, like an old mop, and impossible to make better with water; when he drank, it made everything sorer. He didn't let Sherlock see how much all of it hurt.

Four days after moving in, John discovered Sherlock's violin tucked away in his bedroom, brought it out, and let it rest on the mantelpiece. Sherlock spent a lot of his time staring at it longingly, fingers twitching as he rubbed uncomfortably at his bandages. Once or twice he tried to pick them off, but John stopped him. Sherlock had pouted about the whole thing. John had smiled at how far his bottom lip had stuck out, petulant, of old.

Over the first month Sherlock helped solve no less than three cases from just pictures of crime scenes and the odd scribbled note, bits and pieces of files that had been smuggled to him by Greg. Every time he got a right answer his confidence grew. Greg never gave himself away, merely dropping hints at the Yard to put them on the right track. John wondered if he got any credit for the suggestions. Probably not, if he still had his job.

The sleepwalking died down. It dropped to only once a night, and then to every other night, and then to almost never. It still happened – the most memorable moment being when Mrs Hudson had returned Sherlock to 221b in his pyjamas after being woken by a noise outside her door and discovering him trying to pick the lock and 'escape'. But it had been a one-off, and they laughed about it in the morning, and although John sometimes woke up automatically to check if Sherlock was walking, he could usually sleep upstairs without worry.

Sherlock wouldn't set foot outside until after he'd had his bandages removed, but as soon as they were off he was raring to go. John, still shaky and pale, haunted by memories of the last time, wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he went along with it in the end. Sherlock took him by the hand as soon as they were on the street and, although he flinched whenever an ambulance or police car went by, his eyes held the old light, the old interest.

They ended up at Trafalgar Square, sat on the steps around the fountain in the April chill and eating fish and chips out of the containers. Sherlock poked at his disdainfully, wrinkling his nose.

"Too much vinegar."

John rolled his eyes. "You put it on."

"The bottle was defective."

"Oh, I'm sure." Without thinking, he held out his own, mostly-untouched, tray of chips. "I'll swap you."

Sherlock eyed him. "The doctor told you not to eat acidic substances."

John flinched, pressing his lips together; the memory of choking and coughing on the floor brought back the pain, which pushed its fingers through the chinks in his carefully constructed armour, making his stomach clench with a dull twinge, more of an echo than anything else. It sucked at the colours, making everything duller.

He felt a hand on his arm; Sherlock was looking at him with a mixture of concern and anxiety, a hybrid of the old worry that sometimes used to flash across his face when he thought he'd said something Not Good, and the new panic that came to him whenever something was out of place.

"John?"

John swallowed. "I'm fine. Sorry. You're right." He moved his arm away as quickly as he dared under the pretence of sticking the flimsy plastic fork – when had they stopped using the wooden ones anyway? – into his greasy chips. He no longer had an appetite; they were bad for him anyway. He ate a couple of bites out of principle before setting them aside and staring at his feet instead, waiting for Sherlock to finish.

Sherlock wasn't eating; he was looking at John intently. "You're upset."

John shrugged. "Not really. Eat your chips." Sherlock needed to keep the weight on, that was certain; he was still too bony, still had a hollowness around the cheekbones that hadn't been there before It.

"Is it something I've done?"

John caught a glimpse of anticipation hovering around the edges of Sherlock's eyes, and hastily looked away. "No. Of course not."

Sherlock blinked. His chips were still in his hand, forgotten if the way his fingers were loosely curled was anything to go by; the whole tray was going to end up on the floor if they weren't careful. At least the pigeons would be happy.

"You want to know what was done to me."

John paled. "No." The word was out before he could reel it back in, and he was left cursing himself silently – he did that a lot nowadays, always had done, always would do. "I mean…god, if you want to tell me, I'll listen. I will always be here to listen."

Sherlock's mouth twitched at the side. "You don't want to know."

John looked down at his hands, eyes taking in the scars and freckles and ridges in his skin he'd seen so often he no longer noticed unless he looked very closely. "If you want me to, that doesn't matter."

"You're an honest man, John. Be honest."

John continued to stare at his hands, burning a hole in them with his line of sight, imagining he could see the pavement beneath them. This conversation had been coming for weeks, and he knew it. It had to happen. It was necessary, sensible.

It felt like he was being pulled through a mangle.

"Before I saw Sebastian, I wanted to know because…because I was afraid. I was afraid of the unknown, that I didn't know what had been done to you, that I was somehow going to make things worse for you because I was…confused and I had no idea what was going on. I could only guess." He took a deep breath. "But then I met him. Now I don't need to guess any more. I don't want to know, unless you think it's going to be any better than what's inside my head."

"It's worse." Sherlock's reply was immediate, sharp. John looked up; saw how tightly his lips were pressed together, almost invisible. "I don't want to say."

"Then don't." He touched Sherlock's shoulder, gripping it tightly but carefully. "Unless you  _want_ to tell me, unless you feel ready, please don't." It was unbearably selfish of him, he knew, to give the impression he wanted Sherlock to bottle things up, but the memories were too raw for each of them. Maybe later. Maybe in months, or years, when they were greyer and tougher and possibly, just possibly, still clinging to each other's company.

"You still want to ask me something," Sherlock murmured, turning his head to look at the hand on his shoulder.

John quickly withdrew his fingers, almost burned by the movement. There were an awful lot of things he wanted to ask, but the one that jumped to the forefront of his mind was the one he couldn't touch with a ten foot pole. He skipped past it, hoping Sherlock hadn't noticed a change in his demeanour, and settled on the second question. A safe area. Safe-ish.

"If you can't talk to me…" He swallowed. "I mean you could…you could talk to Ella. Or someone like her. If you think it would help."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

John felt his cheeks go red. "Not alone. Unless you wanted to go alone. I mean…it's not…it's only a suggestion. Just think about it." He trailed off and had to turn his eyes to Sherlock to quash the swell of grief that threatened to take hold of him again – he could still feel it, especially at night, when he was as good as alone in the flat and there was nothing to indicate he wasn't completely mad, and that Sherlock was dead after all.

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking out over Trafalgar Square, although his eyes weren't moving over the people there; he was lost somewhere in his own mind as he spoke.

"Perhaps."

John let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry. About the three years. About…me."

Being a doctor and a soldier had taught John to spot danger signs, and to have reactions quicker than his rational thought processes. He leaned forwards and awkwardly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, twisting to avoid knocking the tray of rapidly cooling chips to the floor. Something about Sherlock's words had made his chest feel strange – hopeful? Desperate? He couldn't work it out, he couldn't work Sherlock out. None of it made sense, apart from ensuring Sherlock wasn't panicking. "Please don't be."

Sherlock was stiff and self-conscious in John's arms, but his breathing slowed to an even, soothing rhythm. He didn't reciprocate, but he didn't move away either. "Why?"

"Because you did what you thought was right; you did it to…Molly said you did it to save my life. Moriarty set it all up – the newspapers, your story, he tried to discredit you. And I assumed he'd put me in the firing line unless you jumped. If I'd known, I wouldn't have asked you to, but I didn't know, and you did it anyway, and you stayed away for my sake. And I might not like it – I might hate it – but that doesn't change the fact I-" love, no he couldn't say that "-trust you."

"You…trust me?"

"Yes."

"Even after I-"

"Yes."

"Oh. Good."

Sherlock had been right; there was too much vinegar. John's eyes were stinging and wet, and he had to blink twice to clear them before pulling away, knocking three chips from Sherlock's tray. They lay, forgotten, on the steps as John turned his face towards the crowd of oblivious people and discreetly pointed.

"So. What can you deduce about her?"

* * *

It seemed odd to John that Sherlock decided to go to Ella after all, but he supposed that she wasn't a stranger to him; he'd already worked out half of what she was like the day he'd met him at St Bart's, a long, long time ago. They rode there in the taxi together, but Sherlock went in alone. John sat patiently in the waiting room, massaging his unhappy stomach and throat and looking up so quickly every time he heard a door open that he got a crick in his neck.

Sherlock had gone in looking pale and he came out looking paler, but he went back once a week, every week. And John waited for him every time, ready to take his hand whenever he stepped out the door.


	24. Tape

As time moved all John and Sherlock really did was talk, have people round to the flat, go to Ella's and wander about London. Sherlock tried to play his violin with his wrist still painful, screeching along the strings and causing John to shoot glares at him as his ears protested, even though he knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault. The only good thing that came out of it was that Sherlock was determined to get himself in proper working order again, doing his physiotherapeutic exercises regularly and determinedly.

They didn't actually visit a crime scene until mid-August. Until then John had been content to simply exist with Sherlock and get by on that. Sherlock, on the other hand, began to get itchy feet a little way into June, complaining of being bored at increasingly regular intervals. John had suspected it would happen sooner or later, but he was still a little surprised when it did.

Greg came round with the usual haphazard case notes and photos, some of them photocopied and stored in his socks – John had to admit, things were getting ridiculous. It was a miracle no-one had got fired yet.

Sherlock set down his violin took the notes, glanced at them, looked at John, and gave them back.

"No good."

Greg blinked. "Sorry?"

"I want to see the scene. I want to go there."

John noticed Sherlock was twitching his fingers, drumming them against the side of his leg anxiously, but his mouth was hard and set, eyes defiant. John's breath hitched uncomfortably; he recognised the light of the chase. Sherlock probably wasn't the only one who had it at the moment; John could feel something in the pit of his belly that had nothing to do with the stomach-aches he'd been having over the past months, thanks to being force-fed a large quantity of bleach. But what had happened to him didn't matter now, because there was a case. And Sherlock was bored.

Greg glanced at John and sighed. "People don't know you're back yet. You can't just show up."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Watch me."

He strode over to the door and put on his shoes without a moment's hesitation. John couldn't help but gape. Greg twitched uncomfortably, but eventually seemed to resign himself to his fate, and made for the door as well, leaving John still standing in the middle of the lounge.

"Are you going to stand there doing an impression of a fish, or are you coming?" Sherlock asked smoothly. And then he smiled at John, and John would have followed him to the bottom of the Thames if he could have made him happy.

Greg took a separate cab about fifteen minutes ahead of them so he could go into the crime scene discreetly, seeing as he couldn't say anything about their arrival without putting his job entirely on the line, and neither Sherlock nor John expected him to. Sherlock jiggled his leg impatiently throughout the journey, restless and pale. John reached over and touched his hand, pushing his guilt down.

"Are you sure about this?"

Sherlock looked at him, then down, and nodded, staring at his knees, tight-lipped, hunching over again. "I have to."

John nodded and put a hand to the small of Sherlock's back for a very brief second, pushing so that Sherlock's spine, shoulders and neck straightened. "In that case, I'm glad."

The cab stopped. John scrambled from his chair and paid the driver, leaving Sherlock time to get out on his own steam. The blue tape stretched across the entrance to the house was painfully familiar, and he miscounted his notes and coins twice, fingers slipping.

The taxi drove away, and suddenly John felt unprotected; anyone who happened to look out would see them, would see Sherlock, and even if they didn't it was far too late to turn back. He wanted to take Sherlock's hand, but stopped himself, although his fingers ached from the strain.

They began to walk, side by side, without agreeing to. An officer greeted them on the tape, unfamiliar, and very young.

"I'm sorry, Sirs, this is a crime scene; you can't come any further…"

Sherlock hesitated, fingers clenching. His face was still deathly pale, and his voice, when he spoke, was reedy, but he was going through with it. John could see he wanted to, could see his conflict like a colour. Red, perhaps. "I am here to assist with the forensics. Please fetch Lestrade."

"Sergeant Lestrade?" The officer looked suspicious. "I'm not sure it's our policy to allow-"

"Who's that?" called a voice, and someone stepped onto the scene, curly hair and a curious tone. John hadn't seen Donovan since before It, and he was a little shocked, even though he supposed he should have expected her. It was a crime scene, after all. It was her job. "How many times have I said that we-Jesus Christ!"

The colour drained from her face and she took a step back, swaying – for a second John thought she might faint, and he hoped the young officer would have enough sense to catch her, but she righted herself before the situation arose, glaring at Sherlock suspiciously.

"No dead people on my crime scene, apart from the original victims."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was still pale and drawn, but his back had straightened, and his hands had stopped twisting. This was familiar; the banter, the blue tape, and the confused officers. John wanted to laugh.

"Stop being an idiot, Donovan, and let me in."

"Ah-hah!" she said triumphantly, not moving forwards, but not stepping back to let them through either. "It speaks. I knew you couldn't really have offed yourself; your head was far too big." She looked at John. "You knew about this, didn't you? You two were in cahoots from the word go."

John wavered, swallowed, and tried to gather himself. "Not for the first three years," he croaked eventually.

Donovan sobered immediately. She looked from Sherlock, to John, and back again, and sighed, although her face remained impossible to read.

"Why are you here?"

"To assist," Sherlock ground out, teeth gritted. "Seeing as the rest of you are being so…incompetent."

A fire engine screeched past in the next street, sirens blaring, and Sherlock jumped, hands already halfway to his ears before he checked himself, and lowered them again. John pretended he hadn't seen, and although Donovan must have, she said nothing. Her gaze became shrewder, more suspicious.

"You can't help us. Go home. You're supposed to be a fraud, and, to be honest, it's more than my job's worth to let you in."

Sherlock folded his arms and remained stubborn. John stepped up to the tape and put a hand to it. "We're coming in."

She batted his hand back. "No way."

John had had enough. "Donovan, the man you see standing beside me has been to hell and back, partly because of a judgement your department made." Donovan opened her mouth, but he carried on before she had time to get a word in. "A judgement I at least partially respect, because it was probably the most obvious one at the time. But it was  _wrong_. Now, I can spend hours gathering the evidence to prove Sherlock's case, and your murderer can go on wandering the streets for another three days or so, or I could ring this number and have the whole thing cleared up in ten minutes." He dug out his mobile and held it out, breathing heavily. Mycroft would help. He was probably watching them this very second. "Or you could let us in now and just be done with it. All we want to do is help."

Donovan glowered at him for a whole minute, but eventually, guardedly, she pulled back from the tape. "I don't agree with this. One of you isn't even supposed to be alive."

Sherlock swept past her without a word. John made to follow, but Donovan caught onto his arm and held him back a few seconds, talking quietly in his ear. "I'm doing this for you," she muttered. "Because you're a mostly decent guy and you spent three years believing he was dead. This is ridiculous, and I think getting mixed up in this again isn't going to end well."

He jerked his arm away and turned to look at Sherlock, who was hovering in the doorway, keeping John well within his sights. When he looked back at Donovan he saw her expression as one of concern and confusion, rather than malevolence, and shrugged.

"I want it for him. It's important."

She stepped back with a shake of her head. "It better be. The whole thing's madness, in my opinion, and I'll be ringing my superiors to tell them exactly what's just happened." She took out her phone. "If you're lying about him not being a fraud, this is your chance to say it."

John's mouth twitched. "There's nothing to say."

Sally's superiors would go through the motions, and they would get to Mycroft. And that was just fine.

* * *

The case was solved in less than an hour. Sherlock came home buzzing with energy, face flushed and happy, eyes bright, alert, and speaking in ridiculously long sentences. He hopped around the apartment for a good thirty minutes, during which John listened attentively and smiled a lot.

Greg showed up when Sherlock had already taken himself off to bed, just as John was finishing his cup of tea and considering bed himself.

"Sherlock did brilliantly," was the first thing he said.

John nodded enthusiastically. "It's changed him, for the better. You should have seen him in the cab home – I'd swear the last years had never happened if I hadn't known."

Greg didn't sit down; he looked like he was heading out again soon, not bothering to take off his shoes.

"Did you tell him you loved him?"

The question came as such a shock John dropped his empty tea mug onto the carpet with a soft thump.

"No!" he burst out, scrabbling to pick it up again, cheeks and ears going red. "No, of course not; I'd never do that to him…"

"Let me rephrase that. Do you love him?"

John felt his face grow hot, and he looked away. "I can't. I'm not supposed to."

"That's not what I asked you."

John straightened with the mug in his hands, cheeks still bright red. "I-I…he's not…I'm not…I'm his doctor," he said eventually, voice flat. "I can't say anything. Even if I could…he'd feel obliged…or he might…it's not worth it."

Greg sighed. "You're making it seem like he's got no free will. And maybe that was true at first; when he was vulnerable and confused, then would have been the wrong time. But now…he's different John. Thanks, partially, if not totally, to your endless patience."

"That doesn't matter," John muttered, scrubbing at the dregs of tea which had soaked into the carpet with his socks. Wet socks. Sherlock had kissed him then. "I'm not what he needs."

"Why don't you let him decide that for himself?"

Something about Greg's expression – the understanding and, at the same time, the misinterpretation, the over-simplifying, made him angry. "Because I can't risk it!" he hissed. "I can't risk losing him. I won't." He shuddered. "He broke…because of me. Moran said he used me to get to Sherlock, because he cared about me." The words felt like acid; he wondered if his tongue was going to drop off. His stomach lurched and rolled at the memory, and it took all his willpower not to double over.

"That wasn't your fault." Greg sighed. He was very pale, but standing strong; John could tell they were heading for a full-blown argument. "Doesn't it tell you anything about how he feels about you?"

"He must hate me."

"Now you're being beyond ridiculous."

"You're the one being ridiculous," John muttered bitterly, childishly.

With a last look Greg turned and made for the door. "Just so you know," he murmured, turning back for a brief moment and not making eye contact. "I thought he was so happy because you'd told him. Not because of the case. But because he thought he had someone who loved him, even after what he went through. And I thought you were happy for the same reason."

"Get out!" John snarled. He hurled his mug at the wall, where it shattered. "Just get out, get out!"

Greg didn't even flinch when the mug pelted him with shards of china, but he left quickly. John stared after him, chest heaving, breath squeezed in his sore throat until he felt he'd explode. Greg was wrong, all wrong, no matter how much John wanted him to be right. His hands trembled violently as he began to scrape up what he could of the broken cup, leaving tiny cuts on his fingertips. They didn't even sting.

Sherlock, sleep-tousled and with one of John's jumpers pulled haphazardly over his pyjamas, found him there two minutes later.

"Are you alright?" he murmured. "I heard someone shouting…"

John was more touched than he knew he should allow himself to be – any inquiry about him by Sherlock was something he latched onto selfishly. The vague sense that he did care, just a little bit, comforted him, and he could barely keep his voice even when he replied.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Everything's fine."

 


	25. Christmas

After his outburst, John apologised to Greg profusely and promised – yet again – to get out of 'the damn flat' more. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes he had to lock himself in the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bath with his head in his hands, breathing deeply. But he managed, because he had to, and because he had Sherlock back, more of him than he had in a long time.

Most of the time he was happy. Sherlock was happy too, apart from when he got bored or woke up screaming. They tottered their way through life haphazardly, but they managed.

They slipped into Scotland Yard more easily than John had expected. It happened without his realising; whether Mycroft had put in a word for them at the top of the food chain, John didn't know. He was more inclined to think yes, seeing as the newspapers published a story saying 'new evidence' had been discovered, proving Sherlock's genius as authentic. They didn't say he was alive, or that he wasn't. The public had moved on.

Strangely enough, it was Molly who suggested they have another Christmas party at 221b. John would have thought she'd be the last person to want to come after the fiasco of the last one, but she rang him halfway into December, and he couldn't see much reason to refuse. It took a little persuasion to get Sherlock to agree, not because he didn't want to do it, but because he liked being stubborn for the sake of it sometimes, a habit he'd dug up from the past and stuck to. John learned to tell the difference, and he knew when to push, and when to leave it.

Everyone arrived on time, apart from Mycroft, who showed up twenty minutes late looking ruffled and with snow on his shoulders. He and Sherlock exchanged insults that didn't bite as much as they had done in the past, and remained apart for the rest of the evening.

John, unable to drink anything alcoholic since his stomach had come into contact with a bottle of bleach, had only one glass of well-watered juice. Mrs Hudson got very red in the face and giggled a lot. If Mycroft had anything whilst they weren't looking, it didn't show. Molly and Greg stuck to wine, whilst Sherlock drank nothing and spent most of the evening eating mince pies and playing the violin; he'd managed to bring his skill up to full peak again, although John could tell his wrist still got sore if he played for too long. Not that Sherlock let it stop him.

They danced, first to the violin, and then to an old CD which always jumped two verses on the third song because it was scratched. John danced with Mrs Hudson and Molly, and laughed when Greg, who'd had one or two glasses of wine too many, grabbed Mycroft and tried waltz with him. The look of surprise on Mycroft's face was priceless, and Sherlock found the whole thing hilarious; he began to chuckle, loud and genuine, a mixture of a smug smirk and real enjoyment.

Mycroft got annoyed because Greg was 'handling the steps entirely in the wrong way' and Molly stepped in to try and teach the two of them how it was 'really done'. Mrs Hudson said three times she should probably get to bed, but didn't leave.

It turned out Molly was a pretty good dancer, even after several glasses of wine. John sat by Sherlock on the sofa and watched, the two of them giggling like five year olds spying on the grownups doing silly things.

Sherlock was still breathless when he put his hand over John's. Immediate concern was what struck John – Sherlock tended to seek physical contact when he was insecure, or when his panic began to return – but when he looked into Sherlock's face he saw a relaxed, happy man who happened to be a tiny bit defiant into the bargain.

John battled with himself. At one point he feebly tried to tug his hand away, before he decided it felt too comfortable where it was, like a jigsaw piece that had finally slid into place. He let it stay, but he spoke at the same time.

"Sherlock…"

"Don't, John. Don't say anything, unless you feel uncomfortable. Do you?"

John had lost Sherlock too many times to lie.

"No."

"I heard you shouting at Greg, that time. What you shouted." Sherlock's mouth quirked at the side. "Hard not to."

John actually felt the colour drain from his cheeks and lips, as if someone had sucked it out with a vacuum cleaner. "Oh shit. I'm…that was…I'm s-"

"Sorry?"

John jerked his hand away from Sherlock's, curling it into a fist and crushing it against the sofa. His fingers were stinging, his eyes burning. "I can't…"

"You make me safe." Sherlock's voice was barely above a murmur; no-one else could possibly hear. "Not only feel safe, though god knows that's true enough. You make me safe from what might happen. From myself. And I want to be closer to that. For a long time, I've wanted to be closer to that, even when I didn't have a clue what was going on, you were  _safe_."

John couldn't find his voice, and he was trembling too much to look for it. He listened. Sherlock's tone became stronger, firmer, although it still didn't raise much above a whisper.

"Moran was right." It was the first time John had heard Sherlock mention him since Trafalgar Square, and it made him flinch. "You were the only person who he could have used to get to me so much."

"Don't remind me. Please."

Sherlock ploughed on. "Doesn't that  _tell_ you anything? About before this…this…"

"Mess," John finished for him, dully.

"I've been thinking very carefully, and I'm very sure of what I want. I realised something had been making you uncomfortable around me. Although you'd never failed to be there when I need you, you've been holding back." Sherlock swallowed; John felt the sound reverberate in his left ear. "I thought I was too different, too changed, for you to understand me. I thought you were angry about what I'd done to you for three years. I understand now that is not the case. And although I want to thank you for what you've done for me, both before and after…"

Sherlock closed his eyes. John, seeing his nostrils flaring, breathing quickening, forgot himself, immediately putting his hand back over Sherlock's, squeezing until he was white-knuckled, and Sherlock's fingers turning red. He still couldn't find his voice, but Sherlock went on before he needed to.

"I want you to understand I don't feel any sense of obligation to you when it comes to…emotions. You know how difficult it was to make me do something I didn't want to do in the past."

John snorted. His voice returned in a hoarse croak. "Better than most."

They weren't looking each other in the eyes; part of John wanted to turn his head to see Sherlock's expression properly, but if he did he thought he might wake up, find out that it was all a dream after all.

"These past months, I've begun to feel…different. Far more like my old self, for a start. I can't promise to be everything you want in a partner. It's not my area of expertise, something I've never been interested in before. I don't know what will happen to us. But I want you to understand that this isn't something I feel I have to do. It's something I very much want to do."

John's chest relaxed, like a knot being undone; he could breathe properly for the first time in weeks. Sherlock, in his own, stiff, awkward, and somehow comforting way, was giving away exactly what he thought. What he felt. And that was…amazing.

"Your mobile," Sherlock added, softly, like a baby bird. "You've taken it off silent."

The change in topic made John blink. "Does it bother you?"

"It still plays the Macarena."

"Yes…"

"I changed it to the Macarena on April fool's day. Four years ago." He felt Sherlock's hand brush his own again, brief, but there. "And you've never changed it back."

It had never struck John until Sherlock said it, until he came to realise he'd kept the same, stupid ringtone because he couldn't bear to let Sherlock completely go. And he wasn't going to let him go now, because he couldn't. It wasn't physically possible.

John didn't hesitate, but he didn't give Sherlock a direct reply either. He got to his feet, dared to look at Sherlock's eyes, smiled. Let him deduce what he already knew. "Dance with me?"

Sherlock's lips curved as he laughed again. "Only if we can do better than they are."

John looked at the other side of the room, where Molly had her arms around Greg's neck and was trying to force him in a circle, and snorted.

"I'm not sure that would be hard."

Their dancing, as it turned out, was uncoordinated and messy, a little too enthusiastic because John wasn't sure when he'd last been this cheerful. He'd got used to keeping his movements and emotions minimal and efficient, and he'd suddenly discovered they didn't have to be any more.

He was allowed to be happy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all! Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> The end.


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